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Plays and Poems 



BY 



/ 



DON MARK LEMON. 



SAN FRANCISCO: 

LOUIS ROESCH CO., PRINTERS, 

1699. 



Offica f the 



N0y2O1BP9 -PC, 35 a ^ 

KdgltUr of C«»yftgiiU I -^TS 



47^39 

COPYRIGHTED 1899 
BY 

DON MARK LEMON. 



SECOND COPY, 







pri^at i» liberty; ntlthout pvinUv'^ inh? 




PREFACE. 



^€ 




jHB work of a young man of one-and-twenty 
— indeed, Harriet kenyon was written 
when I was barely twenty — I cannot hope 
that these PlyAYS and POEMS will great- 
ly please or widely interest. However, I 
believe, the catholic reader will find the volume of such 
merit as will repay perusal. 

No doubt the critical will censure me, and rightly, 
for the lax metre of certain parts of the PI,AYS, yet 
I purposely (though I now believe, unwisely) wrote the 
Ply AYS as they are published, and must be censured 
rather for perverted judgment than for any great lack of 
metrical skill. While either is to be condemned, the 
former may be corrected, but the latter, hardly. 

The poem to the Flag is fashioned after Shelley's 



'SKYI^ARK.' 



D. M. I.. 





EM. 



o o o 




COLUMBIAN ODE. 



I 

lyo! within the West, 

Like a sun ye burn, 
In a splendor drest 

That the blind discern. 
The Fearful never were thy prophets, Columbia eterne. 



Peace found thee among 

States of Liberty; 
War has left thee sung 
By the guiltless free; 
And triumph calls to triumph through all thy harps of 

[ melody. 

Thou art free and strong. 

And the Light is thine: 
God has known thee long; 

Man shall know thy shrine: 
And where thy spirit is there is a better way divine. 



Thou 're a prophecy 

Unto the belated; 
Hymning lyiberty 

To the subjugated 
Until the vasty deserts blossom for the Liberated. 

On thy front sublime — 

While the spheres are pealing 
Down the sweep of time — 
Like the dawn revealing, 
Now flames that leavening light which through the ages 

[ has been stealing. 

On the sacred shrine 
Of thy sovereignty, 
Fall that light divine. 
Which may ever be, 
That beats not on the throne but on the altars of Democ- 

[racy. 

Man's last work art thou, 
Shaping to God's thought: 

While the heavens bow. 

Thou' 11 not come to naught, 
For thou art builded of a prayer and wonderfully wrought. 

II 

Ye will teach the bound, 

By thy history. 
How the way is found 
Out of tyranny, 
Until their spirit is made one with the Spirit of Liberty. 

12 



(Hark! the winds that rock 

Bring across the deep 
Sound of Freedom's shock, 
And the splendors leap 
From fields where burning Patriots sow to fields where a 

[People reap.) 

Ye will ever cherish 

Thy pure liberty, 
That it shall not perish 

From Man's history; 
Still as a prophet free — and go forth freeing and to free. 

Ye '11 teach us to know 
Peace the noblest art; 
Yet, against thy foe, 
None will stand apart. 
With days and nights untroubled with the Nation's 

[troubled heart. 

Ye will weigh the Dead, 

And the Unborn weigh ; 
Hold the glory fled 

I^ess than morning gray; 
Nor will thy Thinkers hold the dawn shall stand against 

[ the day. 

Ye' 11 press on the dawn, 
In the vanguard still; 
Nor put good in pawn 
'Gainst the fear of ill; 
And when Truth's lightning beckons ye' 11 respond from 

[every hill. 
13 



(Still a glory swims 

In the prophet's ken 
With a light that dims 

That which is on men: 
Empires and Persuasions end, but God-like truths begin.) 

Ye will shield the right 

As ye did in youth: 
Ye will love the light, 
And will meet the truth: 
Nor will ye raven down the darkness with the bigot's 

[ tooth. 

Ye will look before: 

Ye will look ahead: 
Ye will weigh all lore, 

All the Masters said: 
Nor will thy Thinkers give a living issue to the Dead. 

Ye will bruise the chain 

Hedging Spirit in, — 
Want and human pain, 

Tyranny and sin — 
Until the grave shall lie beyond the work that is within. 

Know thy daughters are 

Mothers of the Free; 
Woman still thy star 
And thy destiny; 
And as her brow is wide or cramped so Heaven's face 

[shall be. 
14 



Ye will cherish Art: 

Music ye' 11 esteem: 
Beauty and its part, 
Ye will not misdeem; 
But give thy youth to Spirit and bring forth the sacred 

[dream. 

Ye will greet the Bard, 

That he hymn the State, 
Or on pleasant sward 

Pipe with heart elate. 
Or trumpet through a clarion pen the roll-call of thy Great. 

(Still Posterity 

Sees through Poets' eyes: 
Half of history 
In the Poet dies: 
Events pass by but music lingers, and a song is wise.) 

Ill 

Glory shall be thine 

Stooping to the low; 
Glory as divine 

As from truth doth flow; 
The glory that has found thee free and that shall keep 

[ thee so. 

Empire shall be thine. 

Empire to redeem; 
That pure rule divine 

That shall still beseem 
The star of Empire hung aloft an Emancipator's dream. 

15 



Law shall spring of thee; 

Law that educates, 
Law that 's prophecy 
Of the self-mandates: 
Till honor through the law 's the crowning glory of thy 

[States. 
Love shall brood o'er thee 

And all discord quell, 
Pouring charity, 
From a living well, 
Upon the mountains and savannas where the Unfettered 

[dwell. 
Thine shall be the faith- 
Light and Liberty; 
And all thy Spirit saith 
Shall shine outwardly, 
Till dawns that day when men fulfill themselves fulfilling 

[ thee. 

MY COUNTRY^ 



O, my Country, 

Art thou strong ? 
Then I have need of thee : 

O, my Country, 

Art thou weak ? 
Then thou hast need of me. 

Be my worship 
■ And my work. 
And thee I'll chief adore ; 

Not that I love 

The nations less 
But love my Country more. 

i6 



''OLD GLORY/' 



Hail to thee, ''Old Glory"! 

Yet banner never waved 
Like to thee in story, 

Nor never freemen saved 
A nobler standard with the blood of heroes laved. 

In the light of Mars, 

The foemen's flag thou nearest; 

Towering with thy stars, 
Still thou over-peerest, 
And cheering still advance and advancing ever cheerest. 

In the vanguard's brightening 

Where Victory commands. 
Stormed by shell and lightning, 

Thou clap thy mighty hands, 
Like to a winged captain whom no foe withstands. 

The battle's rolling blast 

Hides thy triplicity; 
Like the sun o'ercast 
Above a stormy sea 
Thou art unseen, yet I see where heroes die for thee. 



Again the battle rack 

With thy seven bars is bright, 

As, when storm is black, 
Upon the fearful night 
The crooked lightning breaks and heaven melts with light. 

Where thou '11 wave we dream not; 
What flag has waved like thee ? 
O'er the seas there stream not 
Such lights to Liberty 
As from thy stars descend in burning prophecy. 

Like the battle steed, 

With neck clothed in thunder, 

Pawing at th' mighty lead 

And swallowing th' ground under; 
Rejoicing to lead a People slavery's chains to sunder. 

Like an eagle riding 

Upon the whirlwind blast, 
In its strength abiding 

Until the storm is past, 
And on the crags the thunder-bolts are chained at last. 

Like the morning star. 

Aloft a promised land, 
Streaming from afar 

Upon some earnest band. 
And bringing with it airs by Freedom's hymn thrice fanned. 

i8 



Ivike the sun at zenith 

First seen by him born blind, 

Grasping all it meaneth 
Unto a soul confined 
A lifetime from the common light of human kind. 

^olian organs making 

New music in the hills, 
Melodies awakening 

Beneath harmonious quills. 
The wind against thy folds aerial out-thrills. 

Teach us, glorious birth. 
The light which is on thee: 

Nor upon the earth, 
Nor yet within the sea, 
Is else such living light and pure intensity. 

The refulgent sun, 

Or evening's silver car, 
'Gainst thy unfurled legion, 

Like empty glories are; 
A splendor fit to move before a slave afar. 

What fire is the fountain 
Of thy prophetic light ? 
What star upon the mountain ? 
What morrow in midnight ? 
What secret writing in the face of heaven bright ? 

19 



In thy awful glory 

A bondman cannot be: 
Ye have slaves in story, 
But not in prophecy: 
The fathers ye enslaved have shrouded sons in thee. 

Floating free or furled, 

In peace or fearful war, 
What promise for the world 
Still prophecy thou afar 
In that high audience illustrious of the morning star? 

In the lit serene, 

Seen at that starry height, 
Still thy memories glean 
Fraternity from might, 
That when the inspired prophet bodes he bodes of light. 

Emblem of the brave, 

Hung be the heavens with thee; 

While the hills concave 
Bruit chants to Liberty — 
Our mightiest songs are those that hymn the Nation's free. 

Wave, forever wave, 

Within the Master's sight. 
While the free and brave 

Hymn " God and Equal Right," 
And take those words like suns and live within their light. 

20 



SONNET. 

Dishonored may he stand who shall delay- 
In his oppressed or tyrant-troubled land; 
Who shall not, in her bondage, raise a hand 

To strike her chains incarnadine away. 

And thrice dishonored he who shall betray 
His land's election to a venal band, 
Or light in peace foul Discord's ready brand, 

Flaming the State to war for Caesar's pay. 

Our Country's call is also Heaven's call, 
When tyrants have abused her sacred right: 

Her free election is the armature 

Which God has given man against the might 

And violence of that old feudal thrall: 

Her peace is Heaven's peace when she is pure. 



LIBERTY. 



Republics do not freemen make, 

Nor Despotisms slaves ; 
For they alone are free that forsake 

The license which betrays. 

But they who do subdue are free 
The wildness of their will ; 

But he is the son of Liberty 
That 's Virtue's bondman still. 

Yea, from within is liberty ! 

The which outlives the grave. 
Thus Despotisms have their free. 

Republics have their slave. 




ODE TO ADMIRAL DEWEY. 



O let his song be sung again, 

His glorious song of victory ; 
Sweetest in the ears of free-born men, 

And all compact of liberty : 
O sing it o'er, ye Muse, and sing it loftier for the Free. 

Say how our Chieftain met the Foe, 

Leading his brave, determined men ; 
And how he dealt the open blow 

Against the Spaniard there and then ; 
And how he struck once for the sunken Maine nor struck 

[again. 



Say how he met the Spanish host, 

There where a blow ' gainst tyranny 
(Along that tyrant-governed coast) 
Was twice a blow for liberty, 
Dealt in that just and perfect cause that its own prayer 

[could be. 



The Enemy comes on, and lo ! 

Down from Olympia's conscious gun, 
A cloud of fire leaps on that Foe, 
That lifting, when the field is won. 
Reveals a new and western nation lighted by Freedom's 

[sun. 

The Enemy comes on — to sink, 

Or charge but once — and charge to fly : 
He hangs on deep destruction's brink 
And strikes at Freedom's star — to die ; 
While Freedom's star, now large as a sun, flames in the 

[morning sky. 

The Foe strikes once for tyranny, 

To falter then and bow him low ; 
Our Chief strikes thrice for liberty, 
Gathering strength from blow to blow ; 
And from his Flag-ship's bridge he looks the last on 

[Freedom's Foe. 

Above her groans he hears the sorrow 

Of Spain's ten million slaves that bleed : 
He lays his ear unto the morrow 
And hears the music of his deed, 
Hears that deep burst triumphal and exalted chant of 

[the Freed. 

So falls the Foe for sins of State ; 

His race is closed. Freedom's begun. 
Making a way for equal fate, 

Spain's mad and losing race is run 
Even along that shore she galled, while sinks the 

[darkened sun. 
23 



And now the victorious battle 's o'er ; 

Heaven takes on its pristine blue, 
The waves, untroubled, flood the shore, 
The airs their purity renew ; 
The splendid deed is done that no American would undo. 

Then hail ! all hail our Chieftain there ! 

To whom duty and victory are one ; 
All hail to Fame and Honor's heir ! 
Whose glory rose with the golden sun ; 
The foremost spirit of the fields that Retribution won. 

To poets, he's a song from the sea. 

Whene'er their pulses with freedom throng ; 
To freemen, one with lyibert}^ ; 

An upraised hand against the wrong ; 
And we'll take Washington from our heart ere Dewey 

[from our song. 



DIRGE. 



Sailors lay me in my grave 
When the moon is on the wave; 
Sea-weed for my winding sheet, 
Coral at my head and feet, 
Stars above their vigils keeping, 
Pale moon-beams upon me sleeping, 
Sea-bells o'er me tolling, tolling. 
Waters 'round me rolling, rolling, 
Rolling evermore. 

24 



THE BLOCKADE OF SANTIAGO. 



Not a word was spoke but the brief command 
Of the brave Lieutenant of the Merrimac ; 

Not a hero among the little band 

On the fading star of his hope looked back, 

As swiftly the collier, into the mouth of hell. 
The dauntless ministers of Liberty bore, 

With Freedom and Hope behind them and fell 
El Morro Castle and the Spaniards before. 

** Into the Channel and block up the port, 
And the death will do us reverence ' ' — 
But the distant guns of the enemy retort, 
Clouding the fire of those lips intense. 

Onward, yet onward, the Merrimac rides. 

And the dunest thunders of Spains wrap it round ; 

But his robes shall be robings of glory, who bides 
Till the Channel is blocked to the bitter ground. 

On, on, where a hero can let Destiny slip ! 

And the wave is white with the ghost of a shroud, 
And the fires are trained in the hole of the ship, 

And El Morro hangs o'er like a thunder cloud. 

The fires are trained in the hole of the ship 

Where the mines were laid with no thought of the 

And the Eight have let their destiny slip [morrow ; 
Under the walls of Castle El Morro. 

25 



Kissing its burial, the collier divides, 

Yet proudly the flag of the Union waves o'er, 

Till, fearing the fate of her soldiers, she hides 
The stars of her xdctory 'neath the watery floor. 

But safe from the Merrimac's thunder-lapped side, 
On the flow of the shell-rent waters upborne, 

Under truced Kl Morro the heroes ride 

Who gave themselves up to glory that morn. 

To glory and to the Castilians' bars, 

Which have fallen like broken reeds away. 

For what deed was done in the Antillian Wars 
Lrike the fadeless deed of those Eight that day ? 



SONNET. 



Columbia, from my true judgment's birth, 

I loved thee ever and do love thee still ; 
And something have recorded of thy worth, 

Made musical what better minds made real. 
Yet love for thee has still been qualified 

With fearfulness that thou'rt imbued with wrong : 
Nor, though I warmly sing, may est be denied 

And unrecorded pause behind the song. 
For thou ignoble riches hast up-laid, 

Which first He sends who would destroy, while Art 
Hath scarce the worship of hypocrisy. 

The music and the vision are betrayed — 
No god leaps up within thy artist's heart 

Creative through a nation's sympathy. 

26 



PEACE. 



Peace counts her host beneath the morning star ; 

Peace counts that host beneath the evening star :- 

The battle Spirit — still invisible, 

But filled with visible and fearful works — 

Which darkness loosened, when that April morn 

Sealed up its bloody edicts of revolt, 

Has fled afar into the wilderness, 

And Peace is come again, her fair large brow 

Illustrious with those far-beaming lights 

That play around the golden morning tops 

Where spirits mild by spirits have been seen. 

Phalanx and squadron and battalion fade, 

Like some huge bulk seen distant in a dream 

Before the bright approach of clement Morn : 

The navies melt away and birds of calm, 

O'er that chaffed flood and chaos of their track. 

Circle in ever-radiating light ; 

The soldiers and the captains sleep the sleep, 

No more a toy to war's calamity, 

Who fell with light upon them from the Cause ; 

The living soldier also has his rest. 

With dreams of love and wakings of renown. 

The larger hope is come ; the flowing arc 

Of that still clouded circle grown apace 

That alien lands have glimpses of the whole, 

Whose fullness is the measure of our race : 

The mantle o'er our growth is cast aside. 

Which was in secret, as the larger growth 

27 



Was ever since that shapeless Chaos fell, 
Flamed o'er by Light from out her silent morn, 
And Titan of the elder world we spring 
Perceived where seemed no puissance eterne. 
State-called, the powers, potentates and thrones, 
Out of the West, return into the East 
Which gathered in their spirits astonied 
When deep laid was the future's corner-stone 
Blazoned with that one word, ** Columbia," 
Whose shadow on the earth's high places falls : 
While "lyiberty " is written first o'er every State. 



COLUMBIA AND THE PHILIPPINES. 



The Lord who made thee strong had made thee free, 
Upright, and unseduced that ye should flame 
The sword of Heaven o'er Iberia's shame, 

Till she die into light and liberty: 

Nor armament nor wide expanse of sea 

Didst stay thy chastising hand divine, nor tame 
Thee, O Columbia, who, in His name. 

Didst blot with thine own blood that history 

Of sacrilege. But O, Right Hand of God, 
Why tremblest thou to lead this lesser race 

Out of its darkness! Wilt thou be His rod 
And not His angel? Shall His patient face 

Be veiled before a Nation that hath trod 

But half the upward way which He did trace? 

28 



ODE* 

Come, O come, bright Spirit, 

Mellifluous son of light ; 
Thou who shalt inherit. 

With thy free birthright, 
A starry crown of genius gloriously bright. 

Come, thou Poet golden, 

Nursling of the Nine, 
Spirit unbeholden, 

Sire of mighty line, 
Unborn, yet not unprophesied, come forth divine. 

Thou to whom be given, 

With immortal bays, 
That last gift of heaven. 
Which is chief always. 
To love thy native land and sing its perfect days. 

Come, thou Bard supreme, 

Who shall hymn the Free ; 
Thou whose chiefest theme 
Shall be lyiberty, 
The Democracy that is and Brotherhood to be. 

Lo ! an Epic splendid 

Doth thy genius wait, — 
The Heroes that defended 

Liberty's young State ; 
The unwritten Epic of the Constitution's Great. 

29 



Those immortal Founders 

That have gone before ; 

Those creant Expounders 

Whom we do adore : 

Those old heroic Dreamers who shall dream no more. 

Lo ! a Drama stately 

Waits thy Spirit afar, — 
Civil strife that lately 

Struck at Freedom''s star ; 
Fulfilling union thro' disunion, harmony through war. 

That great War forerun 

By the civic pen. 
Which twice was fought and won 
In the Master's ken, — 
On the fields incarnadine and in the souls of men. 

Lo ! a glorious Song 

Waits thee on the height, — 

Those sweet bursts, that throng 
E'en the pulse of night, 
Of Liberty rejoicing in the main of light. 

That transcendent paean 

Pleasing unto Him, 
Sweeter than the strain 

Of vocal Seraphim ; 
That gladness of the Free which is Columbia's hymn. 



30 



Come, O come, bright Spirit 

To this pleasant sward ; 
Thou who shalt inherit 

Freedom's master chord : 
Come thou in the poet's own good time, beloved Bard. 

Come, thou Avatar, 

Glorious Son of Song, 
Thou whose golden star 
Is o'er Olympus hung, 
Where the sacred Nine are leading thee from the morning 

[tops among. 

SONNET* 



The Poet stood upon the bivouacked fields of fear ; 

(Where Death had reared his dark pavilion on the 

[height 

And looked out o'er a kingdom girt with lurid light, 
Which War had made him heir to as his Ipved compeer.) 
The morning star came down and, in the white dawn 

Faded the starry constellations on his sight, [clear, 

Even as past away in multitudinous flight 
The spirits of those thousands slain in battle drear. 
But, Lo ! another star is in the firmament — 

The golden sun is bowing the blue East with light ; 
And, in the sovereign morn, the Poet's heart is bent 
To hymn a glorious resurrection ere the night 
Of that great multitude which past before the spheres : 
So hymns the Poet's heart divine with its stops of hu- 

[man fears. 

31 



COLUMBIA. 



She is sowing in her mighty youth 

The first seeds of decay : 
She has paid a guilty price in gold 

That blood may not un-pay : 
She has flamed the Orient to war 
For imperial Caesar's pay. 

She is departing, departing, 
Departing from the truth. 

She has ta'en Jehovah's name in vain 

With the name of Destiny : 
Her free-born People runneth back 

The path of Liberty, 
And bring again the lightless age 
Of human tyranny. 

She is departing, departing. 
Departing from the truth. 

She is summoning Oppression's Host 

By the bell on I^iberty Hall : 
And the starry flowers of Liberty 

Are dead and withering all 
Wherever the ironed and bloody tread 
Of ignoble Empire doth fall. 

She is departing, departing. 
Departing from the truth. 

32 



She is teaching Liberty's first lesson 

Shall be Oppression 's war : 
While Liberty the hills among 

Where rose her morning star, 
Long lingering, looks her last upon 
The white-domed Capitol afar. 

She is departing, departing, 
Departing from the truth. 

Lighted by the restless planet Mars, 

Her drama doth unfold ; 
Freedom is widowed of her sons, 

While Honor groweth cold, 

And like unto a scroll played out 

The Constitution 's uproUed. 

She is departing, departing, 
Departing from the truth. 



THE POLITICIANS. 



Look on this politician, then on this, 

As like as Judas' to Iscariot's kiss. 

Which is the greater knave ?" men ask in vain, 

Since both are damned and will be damned again. 

And when, in opposition, they fight for pelf 

The Devil seems divided ' gainst himself. 



33 




ODE TO PAULINK 



I. 

Thou art not dead, Pauline, nor I despair: 

Thy spirit was not given to the urn. 
Cold was thy body, cold thy forehead fair, 

And in thine eyes no more the light did burn ; — 
Emptied of life— all but thy golden hair, 

Where death was softened till it seemed as sleep — 
Thou lay in pallid robes on rigid bier : 
Yet thine immortal spirit was not there ; 

Twas but its vesture o'er which we did keep 
A blinded watch through all the darkness drear. 

II. 

Thou art not dead, Pauline ; 'tis Death that's dead. 

Within yon marble vault, thy sweet form lies, 
But thine immortal spirit has long fled 

Unto that nearer Land than those dim skies. 
Faith was not shaken by thy father's tears — 

Tears ! these upon our bridal morn he shed, 
Yet w^e did not eternal farewell take. 
Nay, Love, my heart is empty of all fears ; 

He wept that thou wast a bride again — not dead — 
The bride of Death that would in Heaven wake. 



34 



III. 

Thou visit me in other ways than dreams : 

Spirit to Spirit sometimes do we meet ; 
And oft thy face, in visionary gleams, 

lyooks out upon me from thy hidden seat. 
Thy very portrait is alive to me, 

Soft breathing words of tenderness and love. 
I cannot stir abroad amid the flowers 
But that the risen lark sings hymns of thee, 

As he doth soar in golden light above 

And pour one spirit through the vernal hours. 

IV. 

Nearer than earth the heavens are to me — 

One who has never lost in mortal night 
The sweet ideal of immortality. 

That star that dawns upon our being's height — 
And, Love, the air more blessed grows and clear 

As I draw nearer to thy dwelling bright. 

And to the shore of that immortal sea : 

And soon, Pauline, without a doubt or fear, 

I'll come and dwell amid the fields of light, 
And ever know that ye shall ever be. 




35 



ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MAY» 



Child of lyight, awake to love 
'Neath the bloomy almond grove: 
Half in shadow half in light 
Hope, in azure robes bedight, 
Whispers that the springs are thawed: 
Fancy, star-eyed, peeps abroad, 
Casting buds of white and gold 
On the waters from the wold: 
While the white swan, with his dove, 
Stately turns to lakes above. 

Dropping languor from the South, 
Drowsy airs of dewy drouth 
Stir the verdure o'er the lea 
Now a sea of melody: 
And the painted butterfly, 
With enchanted curtained eye, 
Rideth on the golden swell 
Of the tincted asphodel; 
And in its winged haunted view 
Morn is flowers and sweet dew. 

Now the mountain lake has got 
Crystal old romance has not, 
Where the ousel tunes his call 
To the swaying waterfall: 
And the poet on the mount 
Breathes the evening's starry count, 
When the crystal spheres of night 
Lap themselves in golden light, 
And teach new heavens how to glow 
Upon the path of I^ove below. 

36 



Child of lyight, awake to love 

Him who wanders through the grove, 

While the heavens far and true 

Take a tender' rarer blue. 

He has waited long for thee 

At the gates of melody: 

He has sung with faithful breath 

That there is no dream but death : 

He has sung ye would arise 

With the day-spring in thine eyes. 

Now, his heart a casket is, 
And a poet's gifts are his; 
Clustered verse and linked rhyme, — 
Sorrows pearls in golden time — 
Tears that never more are tears. 
Fears that never more are fears. 
But have suffered change divine, 
In the poet's melodious line. 
And are gems of vocal fire , 
Such as hung on Apollo's lyre. 

Awake, arise, and haste all lone 
Where the fountains make sweet moan, 
Quired by spirits of the vale 
Wandering on the vernal gale, 
lyong thy poet stays for thee 
With his gifts of melody; 
And will woo thee in the light 
Of the morn or noon-day bright, 
Or by some liquid twilight fount, 
Or Dian on a silver mount. 

37 



AN INVITATION. 



Come away, sweet maiden, 

To a brighter clime, 
Where the air is laden 

With the dewy thyme ; 
Where olives scent the orange, the orange the golden lime. 

Where a light of flowers 

lyCads the spirit on 
Of the golden hours, 

And from lawn to lawn 
Exhales all night in musk that overbrims the dawm. 

Where the stars are golden, 

And the moments seem 
Brighter than the olden 
Times by Eden's stream ; 
And love is but awakening to a sweeter dream. 

Where at dawn up-springest 

Birds of Paradise, 
Which the deep blue wingest 
Till bright Venus rise 
And Philomel scales in song the pure cerulean skies. 

Never harm befall thee 

In that valley blest : 
Never aught shall gall thee, 

Eoveliest and Best ; 
The conscious rose shall shed its dews upon thy breast. 

38 



Spirits shall adore thee 

From their hidden seat : 
Spirits go before thee, 

While their blessings sweet, 
As thick as pond-sown lilies, troop around thy feet. 

In the dewy morning, 

lyOve shall kneel by thee, 
Thy bright hair adorning 

With all rarity 
Of leaf and blossom from the bloomy almond tree. 

In the golden even, 

Love shall join thy song, 
Till the airs of heaven 

With sweet cadence throng ; 
While mocking-birds that waking joyance shall prolong. 

Hasten then, sweet maiden, 

To that happy land : 
By this heart, love- laden. 
By that melting hand, 
I'll make thee queen of all bright April's bow hath 

[spanned. 




39 



VIRGINIA. 



Her look is like the light that comes and goes 
On golden mists that blind a summer moon: 
Her eyes are tender as the fond twilight 
That in the east opes wide a vesper casement 
And hangs enamoured o'er the whispering sea: 
Her smile is fresher than the April bow 
New bent in heaven o'er the faery land: 
Her step is a new song before my door. 

I walk alone beneath the twilight palms 
Hesperus hung, and aye she haunts my side 
With absence sweeter than an angel's presence; 
While, from yon moon-gilded magnolia, 
The mocking-bird out poureth his full heart 
To Dian swooned upon a silver sea. 



AN EXHORTATION. 



O! be swift, my soul, to enter through the portals of the 

[dawn, 

Where but God has gone before and with His hands the 

[bolts withdrawn. 

O! my Spirit's ears, awaken to the music of the spheres: 
O! mine eyes, look unto God for God through all the 

[coming years. 

O! be jubilant, my feet, to tread the dark uneven path 
Where He's sowing men to reap the Angel in the after- 

[ math. 

40 



0! my heart, think not the leaven and the light divine 

[are vain, 
That the better moment is a lie and man is dust again; 

But, my spirit, be persuaded thou mayest triumph over 

[dust, 
That the heavens look upon a swift re-union of the Just. 

O! my soul, whate'er ye make your doubts or from what 

[faith ye turn, 
See ye make thy brother and integrity thy deep concern. 

Tender bend the heavens o'er him and the grave is sweet 

[ beneath 

Who hath labored still for others and hath worn a spotless 

[wreath. 

And if ye shall find no new truth let thy strength sustain 

[an old. 

Till thy shield is taken from thee and thy sword rusts in 

[the^mold. 

O! my spirit, labor jointly in that battle 'gainst the wrong, 
IvOosening down the sweep of time an avalanche of light 

[and song, 

While the works that make men free are leading Earth 

[into His dawn, 

And the Worker's hand is touching robes of glory He 

[hath on. 



41 



THE IDLE AND DISSOLUTE RICH MAR 



He toils not, neither does he rest, 
Nor blesses others, nor is blest : 
Most heavy 'tis to see, 
More grievous yet to be. 

Each morn the golden sun returns, 
But not his simple task that earns 
Both bread and appetite, 
As with a double might. 

His pleasures are of Fever's train, 
And leave his heart forespent with pain : 
His griefs have left him wrought, 
That patience should have taught. 

He palters in Ambition's name ; 

Had lost his blush ere found his fame : 
And honor 's oft o'er-leaped 
For gains as lightly kept. 

Yet soon to him 'tis evidenced 
That honest toil, unrecompensed, 
Is more, an hundred fold. 
Than guilty works with gold. 

He neither tills nor sows the land ; 

And first ashamed of his own hand 
In labor, next enroll — 
Ashamed of his own soul. 



42 



His hands are gloved and soft and white, 
Nor yet have toiled or day or night ; 
But hands of soft repose 
Shall sow no fragrant rose. 

Shall raise no temple stones to God, 
Nor strike the rock with Plenty's rod ; 
Shall build no ship of steel 
To guard his Country's weal. 

The Spring, with all her star-linked days. 
Those golden keys to fertile ways, 
Shall never, from the loam. 
Unlock his harvest home. 

For he has never tilled the sod, 
Nor been joint-laborer with God 
In bringing harvest time, 
When earth is sweet with thyme. 

No birds of eve or dawning sing , 
In trees whose seeds his hands did bring. 
Shall spring no grassy beds 
In that long wa}^ he treads. 

With all his wealth he shall be poor, 
For Home, that haven something more 
Than Countr)^ and but less 
Than Heaven, shall not bless. 

And Health shall have, on every hour, 
An unfurled wing, and fly his power ; 
Nor scarce shall be a hope 
Though doctors hourly cope. 

43 



Nor shall he leave his children wealth, 
Who shall not leave them hardy health : 

'Tis an empty testament 

If parent health is spent. 

Nor he is blest who leaves behind 

The honor of a gifted mind, 

Yet leaves a feeble child 
To mourn its birth un mild. 

And what is life to live and know 
Man's better thoughts, that burn and glow, 
Condemn that false estate 
On which his soul doth wait. 



THE IDLE RICH MAN WHO DWELLS IN A CITY. 

He shall not know how near unto the Poor, 

That labor in the fields, the Father is ; 
Nor rest at even by his cottage door 

And feel God's providence is also his. 

The dew shall fall, but not upon his field : 

The night shall come, nor lull his fold to rest : 
The rain descend, and all its sweetness yield, 
Nor glisten on his meadow's silver vest. 

He shall not know the Seasons of the 3'ear ; 

The tender Spring-time hath no blade for him, 
Within the Summer is no rip'ning ear, 

The Autumn hath no sheaf with golden rim. 

44 



For him the fold's dumb lips shall never move ; 

Nor, in the Autumn, shall the birds with song 
Follow God's providence from grove to grove, 

As they fly Southward where the sunbeams throng. 

Above no fields he sowed with golden grain, 
In hope of harvest, shall the bow be bent, 

A covenant that there is cease of rain 
In heaven and the golden sun is sent. 

To him the dew, the sunlight, and the rain, 
Shall seem no Father's gift unto his child, 

To ripen all his fields of tender grain, 

And fill his trees with fruit and foliage mild. 

The Evening Star shall never light him home 
And enter through his door a Presence bright : 

Nor shall the Morning Star, from heaven's dome, 
Be unto him a herald and a light. 

He shall not dwell within his father's cot, 
But ever journey from his father's grave : 

To wander o'er the earth shall be his lot, 

For Home is that sweet gift which Labor gave. 



THEODOSIA. 



Thou wast the light behind 

My countenance ; 
Thou wast the music 

In my soul. 

I had been dwelling in 

Thy radiance — 
Now the dim waters 

O'er thee roll. 



45 



SONNETS* 



Hazel Viola, five sweet years and thee 

Didst tread those banks of asphodels that bring 
The little maiden, 'neath seraphic wing 
Shielded, to earthl}^ cot ; and thy wild glee 
That leaps the hours through all moody-free. 
Thine eyes of soft accent, and locks that fling 
A charm upon a charm, and hands that cling, 
Thou stole from cherubim. So when on thee 
Mine eyes, that to the heart are melted through. 
In tender lingerance rest, I fondly write — 
This is a bud that springs from Paradise, 
Fed on its light and sweet untroubled dew 
That it shall never fade from loving sight. 

But dwell in guarded ways 'neath perfect skies. 



O, heart o' mine, hast all thy love decayed. 

Untimely fallen in sweet Summer's front ! 
Thy love. Beloved, w^hich Autumn needst arrayed 

In purple sheaf and made its special vaunt ? 
Hast all my gold been sunset without morn ? 

Love's balmy flower but the rose of Faith ? 
Hath Cupid's fields been sown to Dian's thorn ? 

And Love's sweet body changed to misty wraith ? 
O then. Beloved, thou loved too well to last ; 

This wild-fire love has burned thy heart away : 
Thou should have loved less madly in the past. 

So hadst thou loved me, dear my Love, for aye. 
Then, sweet, take heed; and when thou love again 
O love me temperately, or love in vain. 

46 



O rare those melodies heard in a dream, 

Which move the wakened brain again to sleep, 
Dreaming in music's undefiled stream 

Once more the all-delighted spirit to steep : 
O rare the stirrings in the secret pipe 

Of him who makes new music in the land : 
O rare the nightingale when lips are ripe : 

O rare the morn which thrice the lark hath fanned 
But, Love, thy dulcet breath makes sweeter maze. 

Which, like a golden star low hung o'er thee, 
Searches thee out by many winding ways ; 

And passion, answering thy melodious glee, 
lyO, even from the west to east shall beat 
Immortal music 'gainst thy agate seat. 



O weary, way-worn pilgrim of this star. 

Forever seeking rest forever lost, 
lyike some gray billow beating on that ^ar 

Whose magic sands no toiling tide e' er crost ; 
O ye who turn to dust as to a couch 

Which loving hands have spread in toil's respite. 
And, drawing 'round the marble curtain, crouch 

In dark Oblivion's immemorial night ; 
Ye still have been a dusty prophecy 

And image of my life when Hope is fled : 
Nor shall the thunders of that farther sea 

Rive the eternal privilege of the dead 
Should not the twain infinities hold fast 
That virgin glory which from earth hath past. 

47 



Lo, on thy quiet breast and rigid bier, 
Bedewed, bedight in pallid purity. 
And drowned in flood of weeping ecstacy, 

Faint lilies have been strewed in wreathed tier 

With spray of greenest ivy never sere; 
And, gathered to thy couch, all rarity 
Of bloomy Summer's sweet posterity 

Odorous memories breathe of old times dear. 

Ah, well we knew the parting ere you died. 

That all our prayers did less than peace behove; 
And fearfully was this wedded spirit tried 

To look with thee upon the flowers, Love, 

And know my hand must brush away their dew 
And bring them, heavily, thy grave to strew. 



O Love! O lyife! O Death! yield up thy deeps 
And quench this immemorial thirst in me. 

Even as the root is quenched when Winter steeps 
In ever-pelting rain the hungered tree: 

give my spirit drink till I am filled 

Of those dim waters which we call unto, 
Aloud and in secret, and will not be stilled 
Till we may drink as grasses drink the dew. 

1 thirst, I fail, I fall, on deserts idle; 

My soul is faint with calling on the sea. 
Aloud and in secret, for the living well 

To quench this immemorial thirst in me; 
My soul is faint with calling for that draught 
Whose wells were choked ere yet their dews were 

[ sought. 



Be Genius to my mind, thou evening sea, 
Which has been quietless since a power came 
And dwelt within as an abiding flame, 

Which makes the spirit something kin to thee — 

Inviolate, and as thy waters free 

That all the pride of empire cannot tame; 
(Bulwark, as in thy sands a fleeting name 

When thou roll in the thunders of thy glee.) 

Truth shall possess me, and my spirit be 
The mirror of the golden firmament; 

Beauty shall move upon me like the night 

Orion hung; grace shall abide with me; 
Immortal music shall be mine; and light 
Tender as twilight with clear waters blent. 



lyO, o'er the keys the blind Musician bends ; 

Hath passed away a glory from his face, 

And darkness all his lashes interlace: 
To him no more the morn a herald sends 
Of golden season, nor the noonday lends 

Art to uplift his brow to nature's race 

And search the tides of flooding day, or trace 
Man or the sweet Companion him attends. 
Yet unto him beatitudes remain ; 

A soul removed not dimmed, and art divine 

To search harmonious keys, though light shall fail, 
In home, in temple, or in sacred fane, 

And wake aloft the organ's yearning trine 
To those concordant sounds that lift the Veil. 

49 



Shakespeare, it is the chiefest praise of thine 

Thou'rt so commingled with our blood and brain 
We reckon not a time before thy strain 

Had filled the world with melody divine; 

For thou art even as the warm sunshine, 
Or as the dew or ever-falling rain, 
Which as a common part with life are ta'en, 

Without beginning — and without decline. 

But yet there was a time thy strain was not, 

When through the wide world it was unadored, — 

Ere earth was tender and thou wast begot; 

And, since there was a time before thou soared, 

Shall not a poet-lover dream a new dream 

What time shall hail thy heir from some melodious 

[ stream. 



Ah, ah, Paulina ! my elected love, 

I cannot think thee false and angels true, 
For thou art one with that bright race above, 

And in thy hair yet trembles Heaven's blue. 
Around thy feet the asphodels still cling ; 

The rose of Paradise is at thy breast ; 
And oft thou smilest as thou still heard sing 

The angels, audibly, among the Blest. 
Then come thee down. Beloved, unto the sea 

At even when the West is hung with gold : 

Music shall breathe, and when that music cease 
Thyself be sweeter music unto me. 

O come thee down. Beloved; and let me hold 

Thy heart again and know again that perfect peace. 

50 



Ah, well I know that hollow words will live 

When noble deeds are fallen by the way, 
And all that oft nobility may give 

Is but a lustre to a fleeting day; 
That fulsome volumes in skilled charact'ry 

Outlive a hero linked to radiant light; 
And deeds that knock at Heaven's gate may be 

Of dull oblivion ere the angels write. 
Yet rest I in a Providence divine 

To glorify the secret ways He trod 
When rotted is that pageantry of thine; 

And, when thy charact'ry with age is dim, 

His melting race will be a glorious hymn 
Written in spirit and published in God. 



Of immortality, which is the chief 

Of human hopes, — above all hopes how high- 

The greatest faith has moments which deny, 
The greatest doubt has moments of belief, 
Since none are certain whether life is brief. 

As oft it seems, or whether they who die 

An immortality doth glorify. 
Making our lamentation waste of grief. 
Yet still, despite the heavy doubts which crush, 

Despite no evidence which all men trust, 
Hope has a voice the ages cannot hush, 

Whispering this irrecoverable dust 
Doth close around a heavenly denizen : 
And he lives best who lives to live again. 

51 



The gods chalk out the way when wise men run, 
For Seraphim can be no more than wise 
And love that mortal in whom wisdom lies. 

Who turns his back to night will face the sun ; 

And courage sees the honors to be won, 
While fear sees but the evils which arise. 
To work is to be free ; and with who plies 

A noble work eternity is begun. 

Then search out wisdom though it lead from wealth, 
For riches oft to madness are allied, 

While wisdom knows the secret place of health : 
Have courage, and all pains are qualified : 

Fear not, nor cease to plough life's stubborn sod. 

And at the furrow's end thou wilt see God. 



There is no future but the past — eternity 

Is still before, not after : none are free — not one : 
Ages before Man was, his puppet race was run : 

Greece rose in glory ere her own divinity. 

And Rome declined ere waked the Nilus hierarchy : 
Laughter and tears from the infinite fiat are won — 
The play was played before the mighty stage begun: 

Belief in human freedom is an old decree. 

So shall we live in this predestined world destined 
To be its glory or its honor or its shame. 

To wage a destined war against a destined wrong, 

To champion human freedom to the destined mind, 
Or lend to Fate addition of a fated name, 

A puppet in the multitudinous puppet throng. 

52 



THE PESSIMIST. 



" Though Heaven is o'ercast, it not recedes:" 

So spoke the Voice to him who had withdrawn 
His face from men's, as one who inward bleeds, 

Nor yet had turned to God ; but in the dawn 
He past unto the desert by the sea 

And made the mists his tent. His heart was dead 
Dead was the hope and the divinity : 

Far off the music and the dream had fled. 
Unto the stars he is become a voice 

That crieth up at night of emptiness, — 
The utter emptiness of human choice ; 

Of blessings dubitable that do not bless ; 
Of love, where nothing sweet is long drawn out ; 
Of learning, seeking for all truths to find a doubt. 



SONNET TO WHISKY. 



Ye spirit of the Autumn's ripened grain, 
Ye liquid fruitfulness of wheat and rye, 
Ye pleasant runnings tinct with amber dye, 

Ye honey of the golden dew and rain, 

Ye sunshine which in Summer was up lain 
In oaten chalice 'gainst a lightless sky, 
Give me to drink that I may justify 

The estimation and the poets' strain. 

Ye malted stuff out of which fools are made, 
Whoso shall drink of thee may enter in 
The land dolorous by a sudden way ; 

All Hell lies there before, and gathering shade 
Is calling unto shade — What now will stay ? 
Here shall the man leave off and drink begin. 

53 



INVCXIAlTION for a LINCOLN EPIC 



Descend, ye sacred Nine, whose sweet influence, 

From forth blue Olympus, harmonious numbers move. 

Ye who whilom inspired the Ionian Bard 

Who breathed the morning star o'er early Greece 

And gave to poetry the eternal years, 

Descend, and teach this steadfast mind and free 

To be a prophet with a backward eye ; 

To voice a love long lasting as the world ; 

To throne upon the tides of deathless song 

The foremost figure of the larger faith, — 

Him, whose all-gentle deed was without peer. 

Whose meaning was the greatest amongst these ; 

Descend, and teach the child of his great works, 

Within the diapason of a hymn. 

To limn his spirit on eternity 

Forever living for his fellow men, 

Forever laboring for his fellow men, 

Forever suifering for his fellow men, 

Forever dying for his fellow men. 

Genius of Poetry, dwell in this heart 

Where his large utterances are the pulse ; 

Make me a voice unto his living voice 

Which has become the gentleness of law ; 

To his intemporal deeds, make me the word 

Intemporal. And thou, O Spirit of love, 

That didst in him look upward to thy fount. 

Make me not less in love and charity. 

Not less in that large utterance of love, 

That I may speak from out his heart of heart, 

Who made the rod to blossom with his tears. 

And link Time unto Time with simple faith. 

54 



LOVE AT THE UNIVERSITY. 



From the surf, where mermen sing, 
Cupid comes, all-armed, a-wing. 
Flying o'er the classic green, 
Where the Sophomore is seen 
Blowing smoke-wreaths light as air 
In the heavy eyes of Care ; 
Where sweet bachelors of science 
By their converse bid defiance 
To that Godhead hovering o'er 
Whom the lover doth adore. 

Lo, the Blind God purposeth, 
With his bow and balmy breath, 
To o'erthrow the classics true 
Through the amorous rule of two ; 
(Yet to do his enmity 
With the wings of courtesy). 
Purposeth to move each youth 
With a strange mysterious ruth, 
Kill his sleep and fill his eye 
With a lover's fantasy ; 
Haunt the grove with lovers' eyes 
Lit to grief by pale fire-flies ; 
Make each lovely bachelor sigh 
For the bachelor of her eye : 
Purposeth to do each deed 
On which amorous poets feed. 
Nor a lover of delay 
Straight he takes the instant way. 

55 



— O ye Muses nine that mount 

Guard o'er fancy's classic fount, 

And ye patron spirits of science, 

Quickly meet in firm alliance 

And transform this perjured God, 

By the virtue of thy rod, 

To a rose on weeping brier 

Blushing deep as painted fire. 

Or to drops of morning dew 

Trembling guiltily through and through. 

Lo, a Summer's day entranced, 
'Neath a Merlin oak, deep-branched, 
One, a Junior of thy halls, 
Readeth of dim w^aterfalls 
Where o'er all and woven through 
Faeryland's most mystic hue 
Runneth to love's purple lights, 
Thinking youth to fresh delights : 
Readeth of that golden morn 
When the God of Love was born : 
Readeth of that golden eve 
When the God of Love did leave 
The first poet and lover sweet 
With the champak at his feet. 
— O revenge has drank deep 
Of Lethe, whose waters steep 
Thee in all forgetfulness, 
Or this sight would be distress 
Past endurance. But, O see ! 
Who can span thy misery ? — 



56 



Here 's a virgin sick to death 
With the ruth of Cupid's breath, 
While Hypatia 's all forgot 
For the cup of Juliet's lot. 

Fancy hath no sweeter child 
Than yon youth with forehead mild 
He can see the stars at noon ; 
By the light of yon pale moon 
He hath read sweet Nature's book 
Opening at a running brook. 
But, alas ! that book is closed 
Where his eyes so long reposed 
For a maiden's curl a-gold 
Has left Nature's volume cold. 

O, ye Helicon, make moan 
For the BUnd God 's on thy throne : 
Science, Science, tremble through, 
lyove, to youth, is all that 's true. 
— Day and night and night and^ day 
Love is finding out a way : 
When to do some daring feat 
Sophomores and Freshmen meet, 
Breaking forth in classic cry 
Startling midnight stealing by, 
Love is weaving memory's charms — 
(In the midst of stern alarms). 
When the owl in mist is lapped 
And the Senior's heart is wrapped 
In deep philosophic gloom, 
Love is trembling into bloom. 



57 



When the Venus of the sky 
Streams from heaven gloriously, 
And sweet Dian bathes her side 
\Vhere the rushes cleave the tide 
With the starlight on their blade, 
lyove 's about his snares well-laid. 
In the first bright pearl of day 
Of the sapphire crowned mid-May 
lyove is tilting without ruth 
'Gainst the citadel of youth. 
When the campus dust is laid 
And the leathern ball is bayed, — 
(Now the gods, at festal mirth, 
Ask what triumph is on earth) 
And victorious curls are shook 
Which to tender maidens look 
Like the Nemean lion's mane 
When the thunders 'gin complain, 
Love assails each citadel 
Built where virgin breasts out-swell. 
Yea, from January's snows, 
When god Zephyr rudely blows, 
Till the world is turned to gold 
And the Indian mists unfold. 
Love is pledged in dewy wine. 
Love triumphant and divine. 
O, ye Helicon, make moan 
For the Blind God 's on thy throne 
Science, Science, tremble through, 
Love, to youth, is all that 's true. 



58 



LISSOME MAY. 



lissome May, 
My white dove 
'Neath falling spray, 
Know thy lyove; — 
All in the dewy morn 

The rose late sprang in thy way, 
The rose of May: 

1 take the rose, 
I take the way, 
And all love-lorn 

Come to thy gate at morn, 
lyissome May. 



SONG. 

My lyove is not with me to-day. 

For we fell out at morn: 
( O heigh ho, my silly lay, 

Heigh ho, my I^ove forlorn.) 

But I would love my Love again. 

And I would hear him speak: 
( O heigh ho, the gentle swain, 

Heigh ho, his eyes of leek.) 

Then, sweet my shepherd, pipe thee down. 

And I will pipe to thee: 
( O heigh ho, the piping down. 

Heigh ho, the love that's free.) 

59 



THE MASCOT. 



Hark, they come ! 

Fife and drum 
Marshalling them into the heart : 

Soldiers these 

From o'er seas 
Where Old Glory plays its part. 

Long they fought, 

Long they wrought ; 
Now they rest while others dare. 

Cheer the while 

Rank and file, 
As the rockets burst in air. 

But, O see ! 

Who is he 
With a dove within his hand ; 

That sweet boy. 

Red for joy. 
Marching with the soldier band ? 

Ay, I know : 

Needs be so ; 
That 's the mascot of the First. 

Heart o' mine. 

In his eyne 
There is luck against the worst. 

60 



Tell me true, 

Friend in blue, 
Am I right, or am I wrong. 
" It is so : 

Thought you'd know : 
That 's our mascot marching along.' 

" Out at sea 

Forth came he, 
When we sailed unto the war : 

Stowaway 

Half a day ; 
Hid somewhere behind a spar." 

"Then the men 

Took him in: 
Made him mascot of the First. 

And the while 

He did smile 
As his little heart would burst. ' ' 

"Shot and shell 

Round him fell: 
Still he cheered and led our line. 

When athirst 

He was first 
With his canteen full of wine." 

''When we bled. 

At our head, 
Pointed honor's path to Home. 

When we died. 

Soft he cried 
Plucking violets from the loam." 

6i 



Yet 'tis queer, 

Now he 's near, 
That I see a quiver there. 

And those things 

Can't be wings 
Trembling on his shoulders fair ? 

O, the sweet ! 

O, the cheat ! 
Now I know whom I knew before: 

It is lyove 

With his dove; 
And he laugheth more and more. 

Have with you, 

lyove in blue, 
Whom all know and who know all. 

By this day, 

Well ye play 
Mascot to those soldiers tall. 

Have with you, 

lyove in blue: 
While the maidens, low and high, 

Light the miles 

With sweet smiles 
As lyOve and Youth go marching by. 



62 



CAIN. 

The moon arises pale and wan 

And glides upon its flight ; 
It seems the spirit of the sun 

Haunting the night. 

A bloody star doth minister 

Within its tranced sphere ; 
A still small voice goeth before 

Filling with fear. 

A corpse lies in the wilderness 
With dabbled skull a-gape : 

A white-haired Cain is gibbering there 
Changed to an ape. 

THE PLAGUE. 



With heart as sad as tolls the midnight bell, 
That hath no faith, above the plague on men, 
Once more, within this pestilential fen, 

I lay my head beside a dried-up well. 

Far down the shadows tolls the parting knell 
And, hushed beneath the stars, yet once again 
A funeral train winds on the tearless ken, 

And lips without a meaning beat "farewell." 

O God ! when will this aimless breathing cease. 
This dark chimera empty as the grave, 

This dreaming which by dreamers is called '* life"? 

When will thy wide creation have release ? 

The dreaming end ? the dreamer cease to rave ? 
And all things pass away of peace and strife ? 

63 



THINK YE> 



Think ye that Lincoln wrought and died 

Than man enslave his kind ? 
That thou a brother's hands hath tied 

And made his soul thy hind. 

Think ye that Shakespeare loved and sang 

That language be to curse ? 
That thou thy tongue with ribaldry fang 

Whene'er thou dOvSt converse. 

Think ye that Darwin lived and thought 

That man to brute return ? 
That thou should deem thy manhood naught 

And make of no concern. 

Think ye that Christ was crucified 

A modern oath to make ? 
That thou should act as though He died 

But for a foul oath's sake. 

Think ye thy spirit hath been made 

In image of the Lord ? 
That thou thy soul with sin degrade 

E'en with thy soul's accord. 



64 




LH¥ 



o o o 



65 



FRANCES BELMONT 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



BEI.MONT 

Gari,and 

COIyVIN 

Hale 

Maurice, nephew to Colvin 

KiRKWOOD, son to Belmont 

Lambert 

Fairfiei,d 

FOOTE 

A Lieutenant 

A German 

A Conductor of the Cotillon 

A Lawyer 

A Reporter 

A Clerk 

Erasmus, a negro youth 

Mii,DRED, sister to Garland 

Frances, daughter to Belmont 

Bernice, ward to Garland 

Laura, fiance to Maurice 

Edith 

LUC^-ETIA, a negro girl in Belmont's employ 

Members of Destiny League, Dancers, Servants, &c. 



Scene-SA1<1 FRANCISCO. 
66 



fil''^:^"^^'':\j^ *W -'^ ''^jrf' ^' ^v^^" * 



.c^^<!^^ 



FRANCES BELMONT. 



A COE5EDY. 



ACT I. 

Scene i. — A lawn before Belmont's house. 
Enter Frances. 

Frances. — (Sivgs) 

Sail, O sail, ye ship enthroned 

In the moon's inverted horn ; 
And yQ stars, with mist enzoned, 

Lend thy guiding light till morn : 
For my Love is on the deep, on the deep. 
And his path is dark and steep, dark and steep. 
Enter Edith. 

O, dear heart, give me some comfort ; my brother is 
coming from the wars and there is storm at sea. 
Edith. — A soldier must be content. 

67 



Frances. — You were not born for pity, yet cannot 
you lay this storm, you who go into convention quarterly 
with the millennium in your portfolio ? 

Edith. — Have you concluded to become a member of 
the reform league ? 

Frances. — What, to kill love and reform men ! Why, 
look you, what an illogical thing you go about to make 
your friends ; you would have us kill love and reform 
men. What's that good for? why should we reform 
men if it be not to love them more ; to make them 
more worthy, that we love them more? No, as the at- 
tainment is better than the wish, so the love of men is 
better than their reformation. 

Edith. — Well, if you have a stomach for the milk of 
love, I will not feed you on the meat of a congress. 

Frances. — I tell you what, Edith, you may feed us 
on the meat of a dozen congresses, yet a woman 's a 
romantic animal for a' that, and when a soldier steps out 
of her ideal — a soldier, I say — his eyes like two Epi- 
cureans at Beauty's banquet, will she sigh him off? No, 
not Frances Belmont. 

Edith. — Fie, fie, fie! 

Frances. — Ah me, Edith, this old fashioned love, this 
love of Jack for Jill and Jill for Jack, what a consummate 
working basis it is. 

Edith. — You would have more cause to mock me did 
some man anticipate to support me on my dower. 

Frances. — Get you a lover, Edith, get you a lover. 
Not one of these who is fallen into the after years when 
love is friendship and friendship 's sweet, but a bachelor 

68 



on the better side of five and thirty; a soldier who will 
lead you a forlorn hope 'gainst bachelorhood. 

Edith. — And when I have him shall I give him to you ? 

Frances. — Why, there you have the whole philosophy 
of reformation in a courtes}^; when you go about to better 
others you but undo yourself. O abjure it, abjure it. 
Besides, it confesses an overweening presumption to run 
hither and thither to reform the world, to make your 
likes and dislikes the true level. No, no, I thank God 
my study does not open on the millennium; yet, I am 
sure, I am as gentle and cherishing as most. 

Edith. — I may yet find a use for you. 

Frances. — Why so bitter? defense is not adherence. 
You know that I am as contrary as God makes 'em, that 
my heart is with you though m)^ tongue is not. You 
know, none so well as you, that I am pledged to kill love 
and reform men; and that I may better accomplish my 
pledge, look you, I have gotten me a lover to kill love in. 
I am the last woman in the world to deal with an ab- 
straction, but the first to cherish a working basis. 

Edith. — I will avoid you until you recover the con- 
sistency of your virtues. [Ejtrit. 

Frances. — Ah, nature's bosom is broad, and there is 
room for those who would to lie back and rest. If I 
must edify the universe, " rest " shall be my tenet and I 
will edify by example — thus, thus. {Reclines on the lawji). 
Now, come, disciples. 

Enter Belmont. 

BEiyMONT. — Frances, what profit you here? idle, idle, 
idle. 

69 



Frances. — Sir, I am here like Liberty, enlightening 
the world. Rest is the new enlightment ; not that per- 
fect rest of the angels, but that rest of these who are 
heirs-presumptive to the angelhood ; and when all rest, 
can aught of evil be astir ? 

Bklmont. — I gather your drift from the compau}^ you 
keep. Attend, your brother returns to-morrow and I 
will throw our home open to his officers. The time is 
brief, yet they shall be welcomed. I doubt not you can 
find employment. lE:^iL 

Frances. — 

O brave, m3^ soldier 's coming from the wars ; 
Yet one more da3^ and on the western flood 
His ship is limned against the golden sun, 
That like a burnished shield rests on the sea, 
And, though the way be rough and overcast, 
When home is near can joy be far behind ? [EjtriL 

Scene 2. — A room in Garland's house. 
Enter Garland. 

Garland. — 

Now has the plan of things a relish in it. 
Calamity has been a second mother 
And set her naked, mewling, in the lap 
Of evil time, a babe to influence. 
She spurned me in her fortune ; in her ruin 
I doubt not that by pressure indirect 
Or direct I can kill this green romance, 
Discovering an attentive ear in her 
To give my solicitations precedence 
Over that j^oung braggadocio from the wars. 
70 



I'll break with her either to be my wife 

Or my waged clerk, and take the immediate hour 

That she shall come to some decisive terms 

Ere this green sickness is arrived in port 

To blast the issue. 

Enter Bernice. 

Stay, Miss Hunter, stay. 
The minutes of my wardship are most told, 
But not that over-wardship of my pains 
Which as instruction goes along with you 
Unto the end. 

Bernice. — I thank you for your pains: 

Nor this green heart brooding on what 's to come 
Has put your kindnesses from me. 

Garland. — 'Tis well. 

Your father died and left his child to me 
And to my sister: we have done our best. 
Had he but left this lost estate to me, 
You had no cause to weep his death again 
For with your fortune dies your father twice. 
But it is gone: his credit slept in him 
Who was administrator, and 'tis trite 
When credit sleeps some never wake. 

Bernice.— Ah, sir, 

Of recovery I entertain no hope. 

GARI.AND. — 

Through his affairs ran the estates of many. 
Will you not raze the period of your wardship 
And seat perpetuity there ? 

71 



Bernice. — The truth is cruel — 

I weep my father twice. Yet I have strength, 
Schooling I have; yet schooling of the rich 
Whose text is never " bread." 

GARI.AND. — Ay, 'tis well said. 

Bernice. — 

Yet I will learn my place in lowliness. 
Sir, for that love my father bore to you, 
And for that love you bear unto his name, 
Find me an humble place among your clerks. 
Or make me governess unto a friend — 
Employment which I can the better fill — 
And I will honor you as him I mourn. 

Gari^and. — 

I am right loath the daughter of my friend, 
Nurtured for all becomes a woman most. 
Should taste the brazen dugs of charity. 

Bernice. — The poor must labor for their daily bread. 

Gari^and. — Give ear unto my suit ; I'll cherish j^ou — 

My honored wife. 
Bernice. — O spare me this distress ! 
Garland. — My waged clerk. 
Bernice. — Accept my humble thanks. 

Garland. — 

You know not what you do, yet it is sealed. 
Your thanks shall open on another world 
Where what is dear is cheap, what 's cheap is dear. 

[Exit. 

72 



Bernick. — 

me ! I do not well know what that means ; 
Yet it is cruel, for 'tis poverty, 

And what is poverty but woman knows 
Since she has not the liberty of men. 
But yesterda3^ I might have blest the poor 
By what I gave to see their miseries 
Idly rehearsed upon the stage ; to-day 

1 kneel to them for place to lay my head. {Exit. 



Sceyie j. — A lawn before Belmont's house. 
Enter Kirkwood. 

Kirk WOOD. — This is a great thrusting on of honor, an 
illustrious home-coming ! I am neither Lieutenant nor 
Captain, Major nor Colonel, Brigadier nor General ; a 
simple private in the service of Washington and my 
Country ; yet I no sooner set foot on the mainland but 
I am dubbed ''Colonel." For a taste o( coming honors, 
the water-front calls me " Colonel" ; I drink off a toast, 
and there is ' * Colonel ' ' at the bottom ; I call for my 
change, and they ring up "Colonel" ; I walk along the 
street, and the boys shout " Colonel," while the band 
plays • * God save the Colonels ' ' ; the very dogs bark 
"Colonel," and the kittens mew "Colonel." Sure, I 
was born an American, but I shall die a " Colonel." 

Enter a Reporter. 

Reporter. — Well, Colonel, I hear your company is 
returned from the war. 

73 



KiRKWOOD. — Will you do it, sir, after all I have 
failed to express on the matter ? 

Reporter. — Which, Colonel? 

KiRKWOOD. — By that note book and pencil in your 
hand, and that mild yet steadfast eye, I take it, sir, that 
you are a reporter. 

Reporter. — Faith, you must give me some notes on 
the war from a private's point of view. I have inter- 
viewed your Captain. 

KiRKWOOD. — What, you have interviewed my Captain ? 

Reporter. — Ay, and his first and second Lieutenants. 

KiRKWOOD. — Have you the interview about you ? 

Reporter. — I have. 

KiRKWOOD. — Well, sir, a private's point of view is his 
captain's point of view, with the oaths filled in. Do you 
make a note of it ? 

Reporter. — Ha! ha! ha! But come, just a head or 
two; I'll do the rest. 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, you unmitigated rascal, have you 
no conscience ? have you no feelings ? Here I am returned 
from the war after a dooms-day service, and have not yet 
seen my own sweetheart, and you get between me and the 
blessed sun that is shining on her and will have an inter- 
view. Go to, you ass; do you take me for that hitching 
post you've been hunting? [Exii. 

Reporter. — Good, good; I will do the rest. [Bs^it. 

74 



Efiier Belmont, Hale, Maurice, Frances and Laura. 
Bpxmont. — 

Be as my sons and the immediate guests 

Of my revokeless hospitality, 

Made welcome through your services abroad. 

I thought to entertain your sum thrice o'er, 

But this brave company is broken up 

To honor other hearths made wide w^ithal 

To cherish our thrice-honored volunteers 

Who helped to make beseiged Manila stuff 

For histor5^ 
Hale. — History entertains events ; 

You fought at Gettysburg, we before the guns 

Of Dewey at Manila. 
Belmont. — The State that finds him gray 

Shall never find him sleeping, be it said. 

At Gettysburg ! ay, and in the Wilderness : 

From that first trump to Lee at Appomatox, 

When God saw the Union one and' men saw 't twain. 

But you are travel-worn ; come in and rest. 

What I shall lack in hospitality 

Make that my oversight. 
Maurick. — For my own part 

I rather tarry on this pleasant lawn. 
Bklmont. — But what o' the " open door" ? 
Frances. — Patience, good host, 

We'll have that too. 
Belmont. — Well, tarry here awhile. 

At least I'll serve a small collation 'round 

Which is no schism to discuss. How now. 

My son is stolen hence. 
75 



Frances. — He is within. 
Bklmont. — 

I'll set him in m}^ eye. Now, by my soul, 
I hold that blood weaker than water far 
That cannot climb unto its head and source. 
I rallied thrice at Bull Run, and this lad — 
What says his Captain ? what his brave Lieutenant ? 
Has he not the hand behind his father's sword? 
Hale. — 

The bravest of his years, I know not why, 
Yet he did laugh through Aguinaldo's wars 
As though he caught from Death an unstaled jest 
And gave it back unto the mirthful gods 
From ribs of steel. 
Belmont. — I see him in his copes. 

How ! you amaze me : I will question him, 
And even when I find this shrewd conceit 
I'll break to him brave news. Stay for my pains. 

[^Exit. 
Frances. — Was it such brave laughter. Captain Hale? 
Surely, my brother must have studied your tactics against 
that politic Aguinaldo, and endeavored to laugh all the 
lines of your retreat into his face. 

Hale. — If your brother has got any lines of my retreat 
into his face, his face is a very honorable map of the field 
before Manila, for my retreat was forward on the enemy. 
And do you still make a study of tactics, Miss Belmont ? 
Frances. — I do sometimes afiect tactics, for it argues 
there is a captain at my heels. 

Maurice. — (SahUmg Hale) — Can you storm that 
trench. Captain ? 

76 



HAI.E.— Faith, I can do it— alone. 

Frances. — It is better you attempt it alone than in the 
presence of others, for others will see the shame of your 
defeat; there being no shame in j^ou when alone. 

Hale. — There you do me wrong: I have been ashamed 
alone in your company more times than it were good to 
publish. 

Frances. — Ay, I am sure I have made you ashamed 
before. 

Maurice. — {Saluting Hale) — Have a care of the 
out-posts, Captain. 

Hale. — Tut, lyieutenant, these outposts are all there is 
of some enemies; there 's nothing behind. 

Frances. — True, there is nothing behind. You had 
better give in your epaulet ; you cannot occupy nothing. 

Hale. — Well, I have my welcome and I know how to 
take it. 

Efiter Servants, etc.: a collation served upon the lawn. 

Frances. — Sir, know 3^our welcome. ' 

Hale. — This, I take it, is my welcome, as though I am 
sensible only in the palate. 

Frances. — I am sure you are sensible elsewhere, for I 
have made you ache elsewhere than in the palate. 

lyAURA. — This is a very ungentle way to receive an old 
friend. I thought better of you, Frances. 

Hale. — Do not misjudge her. Miss Osborne ; a 
woman always commits the unexpected. 

Frances. — Does she so? And what does a man 
commit ? 

Hale. — The expected, I presume. 

77 



Frances. — Right : now we shall hear some fantas- 
tical bragging from Captain Hale. 

Maurice. — I advise you to withdraw into your ap- 
petite, Philip. Do you not often come to the end of your 
wit, Miss Belmont ? 

Frances. — I grant you my slings are as brief as this 
war — the enemy is soon used up. 

Maurice. — I will hold amity with you until we come 
to a balance of wit. 

Frances. — You do well, sir, you do well. 
Enter Behnont. 

Father, can you draw out these gentlemen to some 
report of their valor, some hint of hardihood ? Is it not 
written against the soldier, " he came, he spoke, he over- 
came ' ' ? yet here we have a pair of them who bear about 
their honors like a clasped book wherein none maj^ have 
a look. 

Belmont. — Perhaps what is written therein is too 
painful for your perusal : war is not writ in water. 

Frances, — I have read the book of the Civil War by 
the light of a veteran 's eyes : I am sure the book of 
Captain Hale's honor will be a b c to me ; a kind of 
picture book. 

Belmont. — True, to each man there is a subject that 
alwa3^s finds him young and half a braggart, and I have, 
gentlemen, I confess, spoke more of war to my daughter 
than I should, but age having not the privilege of 
action falls back on speech, like a stricken soldier taken 
from the field to guard a garrison. 

Frances. — This garrison will never lack soldiers. 



Bblmont. — Does she welcome you thus, gentlemen ? 

Halk. — She has discussed me like a new dish. 

Francks. — You must pardon me, gentlemen ; I do but 
endeavor to entertain, and what is entertainment but 
communion, and communion must be passing witty, and 
wit cannot but find its billet. You are not women that I 
may entertain you with m}^ clothes ; you are men ; I must 
entertain with my tongue. But, I pray you, tell me of 
your skirmishes — how many honorable scars do you bear 
between you ? 

Laura. — Lieutenant Colvin was wounded three times. 

Frances. — Why, I am sorrv^ for the gentleman. 

Laura. — And Captain Hale was twice severely 
wounded. 

Frances. — O Lord, the gentleman has been laboring 
in his vocation. Of course you suffered a day or two, 
Captain Hale? 

Hale. — The fever is the worst part of a wound near 
the Line, Miss Belmont. 

Frances. — A fever! why, this is slightly interesting. 
But, I dare say, you had some one to nurse you ? 

Hale. — I was even so fortunate. Miss Belmont; a field 
nurse to whom I am greatly beholden. O, the most 
patient, the most cherishing, the sweetest spirit that ever 
ministered to the stricken. 

Frances. — And was this field nurse a man or a woman ? 

Belmont. — Such was your mother, Frances; and the 
face of her child is still turned to the field. You have 
her look and her courage, but whence you got that bitter 
tongue I am to learn. You did not get it of your mother, 

79 



neither of your father; it may be you got it of your 
father's father. 

Frances. — I can well believe that, sir; 'tis said the 
good things of inheritance always jump a generation. 

Bklmont. — Go to, go to: take them in, and let Miss 
Osborne do the talking henceforth, whom you have scan- 
dalized into dumbness. Hither comes my son: I will 
break some welcome news to him and be with you 
straight. Take them in. 

Frances. — Then come, gentlemen ; you are to tarry 
under my father's roof as his guests and I am called upon 
to make you welcome. I say you are welcome, but, our 
home being in a city and not in the country, I may not 
say welcome to Laurelhill, or Elmwood, or Cottage Grove, 
or some like familiar yet delightful name : I must wel- 
come you to a vile number on such and such a street. 
Nevertheless, God made the city last, and in that philoso- 
phy we will take his works. {Exeunt all but Belmont. 

E7iter Kirkwood. 
BEI.MONT. — 

Stay, sir, I have some welcome news to break, 

With which congratulation goes along; 

Yet oft we see congratulations have 

A soul of unkindness. 
Kirkwood. — Yet let me hear. 
Belmont. — 

Your aunt, whom you have never looked upon 

With that discerning eye of interest 

When kindred looks on kindred, — wh)^, she 's dead. 
Kirkwood. — I'm grieved to hear it, sir. 
Belmont. — I'm glad of that; 

8p 



Great heirs are not deep mourners. 
KiRKWOOD. — What, her heir ? 

BEI.MONT. — 

The moiety of her estate is yours: 

Frances inherits in equality. 

I would a wife had been conjointal here. 

KiRKWOOD. — I'll think o' that. 

BeIvMONT. — This counsel goes along: 

Have solicitude your fortune is your fortune 
And not your misfortune. Still use it well; 
Its largeness lies in you not in itself: 
Speak for yourself, your fortune not for you: 
Where you would not be seen let it not go, 
And go before, the master not the man: 
Make it your glasses, not your eyes: in brief, 
Though it may feed you make it not your flesh. 
And if increased let no man be the poorer. 
This is the word; the spirit lies with you; 
If joined you have a fortune indeed, if not 
Naught will suffice and poverty will grow 
With increase of gold. 

KiRKWOOD. — Sir, I will do my best. 

Belmont. — Take heed of that. [Bj^it.. 

KiRKWOOD. — I need to work no more. 

So think how much it is I now can do. lEjtriL 

Scene 4. — A lawn before Garland's house. 

Enter Garland a7id Mildred. 
Mildred. — 

Yet, brother, bear in mind your heavy debt 

Unto her father: let your gratitude 

3i 



To him who was the founder of your wealth 
Drop blessings on his child, his cherished child. 
You have a face in heaven; let it shine 
With gentle deeds. 

Garland. — Still contending there 

Where concurrence and respect would earlier win 

The good of your endeavor. She is poor, 

And poverty 's abiding in the sex 

When beauty has not gone along with grace: 

And you, who cannot reason, should obey. 

He best serves poverty v/ho makes a way 

For labor followed by due recompense; — 

I give her tools and you would blunt their edge 

With idleness begot of dreams and hopes. 

The poor cannot afford to look before 

Nor after; there 's no bread in retrospection, 

Nor can this poverty feed on its hopes. 

But rather lets the little fall in reach 

At fleeting largeness, like the crystal merchant 

Who breaks his vases spurning from his dream 

At lowliness. 

Mildred. — 'Tis a debt of sympathy 

To set aside some portion of your wealth 
For your sweet ward: a gentle spirit who 
Has husbanded much above needs little here. 

Garland. — 

I'm blunt, yet in my bluntness is this soul 
Of truth: who gives a woman tools and work 
Most cherishes her honor. 

82 



MiLDRKD.— Yet I do fear 

You lead your ward upon this stony field, 
Not to enharden her against a worse 
But that she bleed and yield her freedom up 
Into your unwished keeping, making your knowledge 
Of the world's inhumanity a knowledge of sin. 
If you will know the world demoralized — 
For so you still assert it in your speech — 
The world will end by knowing you of shame; 
For those who know the world is wholly bad 
Still end by making it excuse for sin. 
Yet I do think their hearts are half corrupt 
And cannot see the good, and being bad 
Do fall in their own evil. 
Garland.— I m not cruel, 

I herein do but reason differently; 
And though we change our reasons oft again 
'Tis reason still, swaying for good or bad. 
I must act by reason. 
M11.DRED. — Our charities cherish us 

When our reasons prove ineffectual. 
GARI.AND. — I cannot set aside reason that it may prove 
impotent in the end. I say I must act by reason and 
train my ward to be able to contend against the world 
that she not come to misfortune. A woman choosing be- 
tween two misfortunes is a woman choosing between 
two sins, for if honor contend with bread, bread will be 
victorious. If I build without nature I build without 
God. I battle under the same shield as you; this is the 
other side. Bernice must to work. lExit. 

Mildred.— I fear he carries the fire of knowledge but 
to burn himself in the end. lExit. 

83 



Enter Kirkivood and Bernice. 

KIRKWOOD. — But, dear heart, do not harp on the loss 
of your estate; you are twice dowered, dowered in your 
love and your misfortune. 

Bernicb. — Yet I fear, since I am thrown on charity, 
you cannot w4n your father's approval to our marriage. 

KiRKWooD. — Am I not came of age ? am I not indepen- 
dent? Faith, my father's approval is now a jewel more 
of grace than of necessity. Besides, he washed a wife was 
conjointal with this inheritance from my aunt, and, by 
my honor, dear heart, when I remember all his kindnesses 
to me, I cannot find it in my heart to disappoint him. 

Bernick. — I will not estrange your father from you. 
lyCt me go my way: I will learn to labor and my labor 
will teach me to forget. 

KiRKWOOD. — Let me not break this gall beneath m}^ 
tongue. I will kiss you. Love is fairer than he is 
painted: I will paint him again; he shall have your eyes; 
he shall have my heart. A plague upon your guardian: 
I will charter a launch and our Gretna Green shall be 
upon the sea. 

Bernice. — If you love me still, I will patiently wait 
until I come of age and can honorably marry. 

KiRKWOOD. — O do not pause: if your guardian say 
aught against our marriage, get you a new guardian. 

Bernice. — For the love I bear his sister, w^ho has been 
as a mother to me, I will not dishonor him; rather wisely 
endure his lease. 

KiRKWOOD. — Seven months ! Where can I find 
patience? not in your company, surely; not out of your 

84 



company, surely: there is no third way. Yet, for your 
sake, I will cherish the delay with a brave heart, and in 
the interim labor to approve that flaw in your nativity. 
You seem to me just the right age to marry, and I have 
an excellent hymeneal judgment. 

Bernick. — I would not labor in the hint; you will vex 
my guardian. 

KiRKWOOD. — If your guardian has confounded your 
age with that of your dead sister, and you are the eldest, 
I would like nothing better. I will secretly unfold the 
matter to my lawyer, and though he seize on m}^ inherit- 
ance for recompense, he is a good hearted fellow and I 
hav^e no doubt will pension me when I am married. 

Bkrnice. — I will leave you now that I do not offend 
my guardian, although your presence is very dear to me. 

\_Exit. 

KiRKWOOD. — I would she were not so proud; she has 
given her very jewels to satisfy her creditors and will 
suffer no aid from her friends and least from me. Yet 
for a' that I must be politic and shield her from the offices 
of her guardian: business is a dog in association. I ha't: 
this war with Spain and our flag in the orient will bring 
the West in touch with the East and open that old and 
eternal question of destiny, that question whether a man 
must needs be what he is, or something else, or no such 
thing. I will found a fin-de-siecle destiny league, and 
secretly, on my inheritance, have Bernice appointed its 
salaried secretary for seven months and a day. Yet how 
is it possible I found a destiny league, well knowing I am 
too liberal to found a liberalist league? But what o' that; 
courage: did not Archimedes the Greek, that old man 

85 



analytic, ask for a woman that he move creation ? and if 
I cannot found a fin-de-siecle destiny league with the aid 
of Edith Prescott, why then I'm something else. \Exit. 

Sce7ie ^. — A room. 

Enter Colvin and Maurice. 
COLVIN. — 

I shall return within these seven days: 

I tarry but some moments for my train. 

You are a guest — to whom ? 
Maurice.— General Belmont. 

C01.VIN. — 

Belmont ! that name is very full to me, 

A date whereon still hangs my wildest year. 

Is he of Richmond in Virginia ? 
Maurice. — I know not, sir: I can enquire so far. 
C01.VIN. — What is his given name ? 
Maurice. — Nor know I that. 

CoLViN. — How old is he ? 
Maurice. — Some sixty years, I judge. 

Gray eyes, steep forehead; has the roman nose. 

But yet a face is but a face to me, 

Unless it be a woman's worth the mark. 
Colvin. — 

I would be certain ere I speak with him. 

Look in this album ; mark this daguerreot3'pe : 
(Opening an album on table') 

This was a Belmont forty years ago. 

I quarrelled with him before the Civil War 

Upon the issue, and in heated blood, 

86 



When wild offense had passed upon both sides 

Disrupting our endeared companionship, 

I challenged him upon the heated field. 

He leaped upon me, and my weapon drawn 

Exploded, piercing me unto the brain. 

The day before he boasted in my fall, 

And, thinking I was killed, he fled the State, 

Pursued for murder, which was thrust on him 

By my companion : yet I did not die ; 

And deeds of darkness work out deeds of light 

I cleared my honor growing rank with weeds ; 

But he, poor friend, was never heard of more, 

And lives, perhaps, to look behind at death 

And forward to some dread decree of law. 

Maurick. — I never knew of this. 

CoLViN. — You know it now 

In that you make discovery of him, 
Since naught 's impossible that 's reasonable. 
Learn what you can against my comi<ng home. 
I would have pardon for the wrong I did, 
And pardon him for his enlarged offense. 
Evil still falls so thick when 't can be razed 
I would not pause. 

Maurick. — Perhaps he learned by mail 

Or by some paper that you did not die. 

COLVIN. — 

I did make good his innocence abroad, 
And yet he left a fair estate behind 
That came into the treasury of the State, 
Which makes me doubt. 

87 



Maurice. — I'll do my best in this, 

Though 'tis unreasonable this thing should be. 

COLVIN. — 

Thanks, Maurice, thanks ; yet till you are assured 
Speak nothing. Take my hand in 57our return : 
The war is over and I have you back. 
My time is not my own or it were yours. 
Farewell. 

Maurice. — Be generous to ^^ourself ; adieu. 
If there is aught in this heredit}^ — \_Exit Colvin. 
And he who doubts that doubts his very doubts — 
This picture should be Belmont's: 'tis so like Kirk. 
I will discover if he is the man 
Then wait upon my uncle with the proofs. 
Meantime I'll return into his daughter's sight 
And mark her voice i' the dark, her smile i' the light. 

\^Exit. 




88 



ACT II. 

Scene i. — A lawn before Belmont's house. 
Enter Hale, Maurice, Frances and Kirkwood. 

Frances. — Indeed, Lieutenant Colvin, I wonder you 
do not weary of questioning me of my father in the Civil 
War : yet I would not wonder should your questions be 
in the mouth of Captain Hale. 

Maurick. — Do my questions weary you ? I was born 
to do offense. 

Frances. — O, no, no, no : I mean your questions 
would more become Captain Hale. 

Hale. — How may that be, Miss Belmont? I am 
curious to discover. 

Frances. — Why, sir, should you question me of the 
Civil War, I would think you were eager to learn what 
a war is like. 

Hale. — This ! when I have not yet shaken the dust of 
active service from me. 

Frances. — A^^ for a dusty captain,' God warrant; 
there is no quiet breathing in your presence. 

Hale. — I will retire for a smoke ; 'tis health and 
society to me. 

Frances. — Do not, I beg you. I know many could 
abide my conversation were it not for my words : yet do 
not retire ; I have a favor to ask. 

Hale. — What, will you have me to laugh when you 
are witty ? 

Frances. — No, thanks : I know when I am witty by 
your writhing. Will you not fetch me from the library 
my album of the Rebellion. 

89 



Hale. — I will take it upon me only that I may get my 
pipe. lExit. 

Frances. — From our conversation, you must presume, 
Lieutenant, that Captain Hale and I are old friends ? 

KiRKWOOD. — A stranger might presume from your 
conversation that you are older enemies. 

Frances. — Do not think that. I will tell you why I 
am so filed with him. I did once say I had a good wit : 
*' True," said he, " and like the good it will die early." 
"No," said I, ''it will flourish like the wicked:" 
"Right," said he, "till it is as dry as summer dust." 
" Ay," said I, "and you will lay that summer dust with 
your tears." And I took it upon me to make that good, 
and have — 

Maurice. — Succeeded. 

Frances. — You are dry, sir, you are dry. Is my wit 
as " dry as summer dust " ? 

Maurice. — I see you can lead me whither you choose. 

Frances. — I yet will lead you to no confusion. Here 
he comes : you shall mark the daguerreotype of my father: 
you are a good judge ; when he was my brother's age 
he was very like Kirk. 

Re-enter Hale [with albmn). 

Hale. — What have I for my pains. Miss Belmont ? 
Frances. — Your pipe, sir, your pipe. This is the 
daguerreotype. Lieutenant. 
Maurice. — This ? 
Frances. — Even this. 
Maurice. — Let me see. 
Frances. — Is it not like my brother? 

90 



Maurice. — The very same. 

KiRKWOOD. — Yes, my father bears a strong resem- 
blance to me. 

Maurice. — {Aside.) 'Tis so: this is the Belmont who 
wounded my uncle. 

Frances. — If, by his matured features, you can tell 
how my father looked as a youth, perchance, Lieutenant, 
by my salad days, 5^ou can tell how I wdll look when a 
grand-dame ? 

Maurice.— I cannot tell. Miss Belmont. 

Hale. — Colvin, remember our appointment: there 's 
no grace but disgrace. Miss Belmont, adieu. 

Maurice. — I attend. Miss Belmont, good day. 

Frances. — Gentlemen, I release you. 

Maurice. — {Aside. ) 

When we shall meet again, one meets to sin: 
My thoughts have crossed, my spirit enters in. 

{^Exeunt Hale and Maurice. 

KiRKWOOD, 

Frances, are you aware you are belove.d 
By one w^hom Fortune has gone far to find. 
And found him in the services of Honor ? 

Frances. — And who is this ? 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, Philip Hale. 

Frances. — Is 't possible? 

KiRKWOOD. — 

If you should love the gentleman, in truth. 
Cherish your silence and your sweet reserve; 
Make not familiarity the rift 
Within the lute where harmony would swell: 
Rather smile at others than make others smile, 

91 



For men still mark the witty of the sex 
But sue the reserved : and, if you should love, 
Think not proposal lies within the man. 
For maidens woo even as roses woo — 
But let the bud be swxet and men will smell. 
Frances. — 

What philosophy have you dreamed to wake so wise 
What rose have you j ust smelt that was so sweet ? 
What lute have you been playing in the dark ? 
Away, I'll show a lover but the bad — 
A maid can do on that until she 's wed — 
And then the good is nothing flat nor stale: 
Which is my project though my project fail. 

Enter Belmont. 

Belmont. — Know you Lieut Colvin's place of birth? 
Frances. — I know not, sir. He sought to know of 

[yours. 
Belmont. — He did? 
Frances. — Indeed, he fought 5^our battles o'er. 

KiRKWOOD. — 

He has a gift peculiar: mark you, sir: 
He said about my age you had my look — 
For he has made a study of these things — 
The forehead and the eyes and in the chin. 
Although your beard might well confuse that last ; 
All w^hich this daguerreotype does well approve. 
Yet how he shrunk your face to twenty-three 
And got the likeness I am still to learn. 

Belmont. — What, has he seen this daguerreotype? 

KiRKWOOD. — He has. 

92 



Belmont. — How did he come by it ? 

Frances. — He would approve 

His judgment, and in issue begged of me 
Some likeness of your youth. 'Tis all we have. 

KiRKWOOD. — Why do you ask? 

Belmont. — Attend, and know so far. 

His name is troubled waters still to me, 
Which I have yet to cross, or do I dream ? 
My past is filled with regret yet not with sin, 
Sin more than anger at my dearest friend. 
I loved my country more than brotherhood, — 
Or did I make my country but my pride 
And love my pride ? was I not still the fool 
Of patriotism that I suffered thus ? 
Yet know, my anger crossed with circumstance 
Did hedge me in with the condemning law, 
And should lyieutenant Colvin be of kin 
To him 'gainst whom I scorned, and know my past 
In its inversion, then, should he but act. 
Though innocent, in the great hand of law I stand 
To render an account for the thoughts of men. 

Frances. — Alas, what have I done ! 

Belmont. — No harm, no harm. 

This cruel wound cannot live after me 
And bleed within my issue. Call 't a dream 
Until we wake ; yet heedful in our dream 
Give waking no offense. Then come your ways. 

{Exeunt, 



93 



Scene 2. — The same. 
Enter Lucretia and Erasmus. 

LuCRKTiA. — Do you specify that as a holiday when 
the nebulous star has passed the meridian ? That should 
be designated as a semi-holiday. 

Erasmus. — You know too much for a colored orphan. 

LucRKTiA. — If my progenitors are demised, your pro- 
genitor is no better than a medicine bottle : and if I walk 
out of service, sir, it will be on lexicons and books and 
not on gin flasks. 

Erasmus. — Who is that white soldier I saw you kissing 
his picture in the pantrj^ ? 

I^UCRETIA. — That is my paramour. 

Erasmus. — Has he ever seen your face ? 

I^UCRKTIA. — He has seen my mind. 

Erasmus. — Does he know you are black? 

I^UCRBTIA. — lyove is blind. 

Erasmus. — Did he answer that love-letter you tucked 
in that jelly you sent the volunteers at the Philippines? 

Lucretia. — Go off: leave me to consider the lilies. 
\^Exit Erasmus. Lucretia retires 
to the summer house on the lawn. 

Enter Kirkwood and Lambert severally. 

KiRKWOOD. — O Lord, here comes Lambert who made 
me laugh myself into a fever at Negros. 

Lambert. — Did you hand Lucretia that box of choco- 
ates, Kirk ? 

Kirkwood. — I did. 

Lambert. — And the lilies and the violets? 

Kirkwood. — Ay. 

94 



Lambert. — And the letter ? 

KiRKWOOD. — True. 

lyAMBERT. — How did she take the letter ? 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, man, if her eyes danced at the 
superscription, doubt not that her heart danced at the 
context. 

Lambert. — I must see her face. She has never sent 
me her photograph, though I have begged her to do so, 
and have sent her a dozen of mine. Is she as ravishing 
as you say ? What, is she at home now ? give me a 
secret glimpse of her. 

KiRKWOOD. — Hush, speak low. Do you mark yon 
little full-blooded negro wench in the summer house ? 

Lambert. — Ay. 

KiRKWOOD. — She 's as bright as a dollar in ebony and 
tattles. If she should hear you or you should make her 
a go-between between Lucretia and yourself, you will 
lose your hopes, for she will tattle to Lucretia 's guar- 
dian, who, as I said, is our housekeeper. 

Lambert. — Mum. 

KiRKWOOD. — You must not meet Lucretia yet ; you 
are too lean. You must get in flesh : a week and you 
are all peach and cream. Yet I will give you a moonlit 
balcony view of Lucretia, an' you will. 

Lambert. — A moonlit balcony, smothered in roses and 
jasmine ! Can a man be heir to such joy ! 

KiRKWOOD. — But, Lambert, Lambert, she will con- 
verse with you, too, and sing you some marvelous rich 
words of love. 

Lambert. — ^Jove, I will elope with her from the 
balcony. 

95 



KiRKWOOD. — Not till the second night: we must be 
sljT-, peculiarly sly. Away! keep to your rooms: I will 
come to you this evening with some exquisite love 
speeches. Away ! 

I/AMBKRT. — I will wear a uniform : I will have my 
mustache waxed: I will bring violets to cast at her feet. 
Tell her I send her a hundred kisses. 

KiRKWOOD. — Away ! 

I^AMBERT. — If you love me, don't disappoint me, Kirk. 

lExit. 

KiRKWOOD. — I fear you, I^ambert: for all your senti- 
ments, I fear you would play this trusting lady false, and 
therefore I will not unveil Lucretia to you until I have 
made an example of j^ou — and an ass. Come hither, 
lyucretia. 

Lucretia comes forward. 

Do 3'ou know, Lucretia, when I was in camp on the 
Philippine Island, that many of the soldiers received love- 
letters in their Christmas parcels from young ladies to 
whom they were strangers? that some of these soldiers 
corresponded and received letters of love in return ? that 
since my company has got its discharge, several of these 
same soldiers have searched out their fair correspondent, 
still blushing through their love missiles, and that to- 
night I attend the nuptial of one of these fortunate fellows 
with his sweet correspondent ? 

LucRKTiA. — La, how romantic. 

KiRKWOOD. — Did you mark the soldier with whom I 
have been conversing ? 

LucRKTiA. — Is he the gentleman ? 

96 



Kirk WOOD. — No, not exactly, Lucretia. But do 3^ou 
know he received a letter with the rest and corresponded, 
receiving many letters of love and esteem but never a 
photograph of his lady-love, although he sent her a 
lover's dozen of his own? that he has come to see his 
love and claim her if she is fair ? that she lives here, even 
here? that her name is Lucretia Floyd ? 

lyUCRETiA. — I never did it, sir; I never did it. 

KiRKWOOD. — Why look you. Miss Lucretia Floyd, we 
know your hand, we know your wit, we know your 
learning. Can a light be hid in darkness ? No, it but 
streams the brighter. 

Lucretia. — I am ashamed you should fib so, la. 

KiRKWOOD. — I will be your friend, Lucretia : you 
shall woo him to-night from your window balcony amidst 
the roses and jasmine; and that he be not prejudiced 
against your race-color, the first night you shall make 
love in a veil the color of his race ; the second night the 
veil shall be a shade darker ; and in seven nights, by this 
sweet declension, he shall come to look on you, unveiled, 
as the heart of the twilight. 

Lucretia. — But can it be done, sir ? 

KiRKWOOD. — In faith, I think so. I will hasten and 
purchase the veils : meanwhile, Lucretia, make me a 
wood fire in the library : I will search through the poets 
for some pretty speeches for the balcony, with a love 
song to make them the more gracious. Stay, Lucretia, 
you are forgetting something. 

Lucretia. — {Courtesying) Thank you, sir. 

97 



KiRKWOOD.—No, Lucretia, I do not mean that: I 
mean j^our lover has made me executor of a poor hun- 
dred kisses. What shall I do with 'em ? {Aside) Now 
I stagger in my trust. 

LucRKTiA. — I^a, Mr. Belmont, I cannot choose but 
laugh. [Exit. 

Kirk WOOD. — Why, I must have care : if I begin by 
making love to her for another man, I'll end b}^ making 
love to her for myself. [Exit, 

Scene j. — The same. 
Enter Frances and Edith. 

Frances. — Now, Edith, I have you where I have 
wished you these many days ; where you can neither 
take offense nor give offense. I would I had all re- 
formers even so. 

Edith. — You cannot part true reformation from offense. 

Frances. — I hasten to believe, I beg to agree. I mean 
since you are to found a destiny league you cannot chide 
me if I do not approve, for that is my fate; neither can I 
take offense at your solicitations, for that is your fate. 
Ah! what a comfortable doctrine it is. 

Edith. — We were not born to be comfortable: do you 
realize that ? 

Frances. — You are wrapt, you are wrapt; else you 
would smile at that saying. How, not born to be com- 
fortable lounging in pleasant hammock in pleasant shade ? 
Ivcave me: I have known the fullness of life; I have 
laughed, I have loved. Now let the Sphinx speak. 

Edith. — You will not aid me in founding this destiny 
league ? 

98 



Frances. — I will not lend you a suitor, lest you make 
too free with his destiny: away. But, Edith, Edith, 
make the league simple, for amusements are simple or 
nothing. 

Edith. — What do you read? I will lend you a book. 

Erancks. — Does not the cover proclaim a modern 
book though the title confesses nothing ? In the begin- 
ning the villain looks about to big-blue-eyed-sorrow and 
divine Providence in doubt; but a benign author has 
conclusion, and the golden waters of patience flow to 
paradise. Yet, indeed, I do not greatly care to read such 
books; I rather re-read 'em. 

Edith. — You would be more edified with this volume. 

Frances. — lycnd not me that book; it has a black pur- 
gatorial binding. I am sure 'tis like the catacombs, all 
bones and skulls; a sea of unrest in duodecimo; a shadow 
in buckram. By my faith, I can hear it groan. What 
melancholy malcontent o' the paper age talked into that 
paper phonograph ? 

Edith. — This is wit, not logic. 

Frances. — An' I have the wit, I care not who has the 
logic. O 'tis so easy to be miserable and write miserable 
books, that were I this author I would mend my style 
and let my joy confess my labor. 

Edith. — Do you know I would found this destiny 
league but to make Bernice Hunter secretary, that she sup- 
port herself in some comfort and labor in mind rather 
than in body ? 

Frances. — Now j^ou have a trick of realism. I will 
do anything inoffensive to relieve our most unfortunate 

99 



friend. I will lend you for membership seven suitors at 
any notice, and more to follow. What, I will make love 
for charity ! and no sooner shall a gentleman enter the 
list but I will hand him over to destiny and dues. Con- 
fessed we do not believe in destiny, 3^et is not charity as 
brave as destiny ? and though we call it a destiny league, 
is not the spirit the language? and is not charity the 
spirit? Therefore we are not hypocrites. No, I cannot 
abide an hypocrite. 

Edith. — I can rely on you that Bernice will never 
learn this league is founded for her benefit ? 

Frances. — You can : and, as my brother says, this 
will be a fin-de-siecle destiny league, for we do not believe 
in destiny, and our knowledge of destiny, no doubt, is 
less than our belief. 

Edith. — There may be considerable truth in this 
destiny question, which we will labor to discover when 
the league is organized. I will call again this evening. 
Adieu. lExit. 

Frances. — Here 's a woman who will kill systems, 
philosophies, charities, and other abstractions, like geese 
— two at a cast. 

Eiiter Hale. 

Here comes a fatalist. Good morning, have you read 
Brahma ? 

Hale. — Brahma; critic or novelist? 

Frances. — Neither : the great abstraction. What 
pipe have yow been smoking ? 

Hale. — Ha, the Vedas ! Why, yes, I am familiar with 
these teachings. 



Frances. — I dare say you have them in the original. 
Do you believe in destiny ? 

Halk. — Destin}^? the word is more inclusive than con- 
clusive. But do you get this ''destiny " from the Vedas, 
Miss Belmont ? 

Frances. — Do not smile: I grant you that somewhere 
in the haze of my mind the Vedas are grouped with the 
Kismet of Mohammed and the three Fates in art. But 
do you ? 

Hale. — Destiny? 'tis an old word with a new signifi- 
cance; but if you mean plain fatality, no, Miss Belmont. 

Frances. — You will do, sir, you will do. You must 
join this fin-de-siecle destiny league which I am founding 
with our philanthropic friend Edith Prescott. 

Hale. — And what are the privileges? 

Frances. — You meet weekly and pay your dues. 

Hai,e. — Is this the new enlightenment? 

Frances. — Ay, a candle in the new enlightenment. But 
we shall also issue a periodical, and our motto shall be, 
' ' Let us remember we are destined. ' ' Will you subscribe 
your name to this new enlightenment ? 

Hai,e. — If you are a founder, I will take it on me 
sans heresy. 

Frances. — Did you subscribe that you might make 
that pretty speech ? 

Hale. — Give me this rose i' your hair. 

Frances. — Look w^here you stand: 

Off from my shadow, sir. 

Hale. — I have the leaf. 

I'll not return unkindness for unkinduess 
But will reproach you with large charity, 



Sajung that since 3-our hand has touched this leaf 

It is a flower, which I'll wear as my life— 

Though one see nothing w^orth another may. 

Frances, do you recall when first we met. 

Even beneath these trees ? Think on that time 

And on the long interim to this hour; 

lyook forward from that day I cherish still 

When, passing through formalities into friendship, 

You came into my life unto this hour 

When I would gather you unto my heart, 

And know my love long lasting as these years. 

I love you, Frances, with that dear regard 

That cherishes the cherisher not more, 

And come to ask unending fellowship. 

lyCt not my suit prove profitless and void. 

Nor judge my heart bj^ these weak words in me : 

I have no eloquence that ma}^ express 

The love sincere I bear or show your choice 

Shall be my pathos and my destiny, 

And words seem cold ; yet know around 3'ou blow 

The authentic airs wherein I move and breathe 

And cannot live without. 

Frances, — So far 3'ou speak, 

I look into my heart and see how cramped 
It still has been to entertain as guest 
So true a gentleman. Yet let me pause. 
Not, sir, that I esteem another more, 
But that I am not mistress of my choice 
To give a perfect answer to your words 
Until some later time. Yet, in so far 



As to cherish your regard, I'll break reserve, 
Which still in me, I find, has been to love 
A second nature, and confess this much — 
If I should ever give my heart and hand 
Into the keeping of a gentleman, 
You shall not lose your hopes. 

Halk. — I thank you, Frances. 

That I may hope to win you as my wife 
Gives me that patience to endure the pause. 
I will intrude no longer on 3 our book : 
Adieu. S^Exit. 

Frances. — That I were free to speak my heart, 

Showing my tongue has been to hide my heart. 
Yet when my father spoke about his past, 
I knew I could not honorably consent 
Unless this history should stand confessed. 
My father must discover all to me 
That I may know how goes the light and dream. 

Enter Maurice. 
Maurick. — 

Since I am not your guest, I may presume 

To be your visitor ? 
Frances. — You 're welcome still. 

Maurice. — And 5^et 'tis said a book 's the dearest 

[friend. 
Frances. — You doubt your welcome, then? 

Maurice. — I would excuse 

Intrusion on your quiet. 
Frances. — Yet do not so; 

My leisure 's ample both for friend and book. 
103 



Maurice. — 

If I am welcome with a noble book 

I am twice welcome, and my friendship builds 

On base enduring. 
Frances. — It was shrewdly said, 

He flatters best who flatters what we read, 

For reading still presumes the heart and mind. 

Yet, sir, make not my book my flattery; 

A green romance unseasoned by that light 

That beats upon the critic's throne; its name 

Is scarcely dry within the catalogue; 

Yet gentle prose it is and sweet withal. 

Maurice. — 

Our friend Fairfield has told me of a tale 
With a divided plot, and both must fall 
Unless he mend the plot. 

Frances. — Yet time is art. 

Maurice. — 

Still must a woman comprehend a woman: 
I will unfold this plot and let 3^ou judge 
The heroine's decision. 

Frances. — Ay, do so. 

I fain would see this ear within the blade 
And learn what cankers may beset it there. 

Maurice. — 

A little while before the Civil War 

Two friends did quarrel: the younger of these two 

Boasted the elder's fall, and in return 

The elder challenged him with weapon drawn; 

104 



Then did this younger friend leap on the elder 
And, in the act, the weapon was discharged, 
Killing the challenger by accident. 
The only witness — yet I know not why — 
Thrust murder on this younger friend, who fled; 
Beyond the call of angel or of man 
Should he be taken by mistaken law. 
Long afterwards, within this west of wests, 
This refugee, now in decline of life. 
By a descendant of that fallen friend, 
Is recognized. Now mark the dilemma : 
This refugee a lovely daughter has 
Whose hand this same descendant will possess 
Or else he will expose this refugee 
Unto the law, dishonoring his age ; 
And what is more, exposing him to death. 
Or life-long durance, which is worse than both. 
Which will the daughter do : be sacrificed 
To pillar her father's honor and decline, 
Consenting to be the wife of this descendant ? 
Or leave that father to the course of law, 
Wedding his age unto a wilderness ? 
Frances. — 

If she should choose the last, this book to me 
Would be a battle from cover unto cover : 
I could not choose but scorn her selfishness. 
No ; let this same descendant gain the daughter- 
'Tis pity men set books so bad example — 
As terms of silence ; and so let it wear 
In shadow to the shadow of the altar, 
And then— 

105 



Maurice. — Why do you pause ? 

Frances. — Is 't possible 

Such is his plot? 
Maurice. — No, this is not his plot. 

Frances. — Whose, then ? 
Maurice. — 'Tis mine. 

Frances. — Your plot : do you write this? 

Maurice. — No : I would learn j'our heart in such an 
Frances. — Why would you learn ? [issue. 

Maurice. — You are to act this part. 

Frances. — I ? 
Maurice. — Even j^ou. Your father 's this refugee, 

And I am this descendant. 
Frances. — O what is this ! 

Maurice. — You must endure. 
Frances. — Ah, you but jest to me. 

Maurice. — 

If I do jest I do not jest in vain. 
Briefly this is no tale, it is the truth 
Which Fairfield dreams not of; no man but I. 
Aud for this truth 3'ou must become my wife. 
:Since I have looked upon your face I see 
I have a devil in my heart. 

Frances.— O me, 

He has a fever. 

Maurice. — I can well think that. 

Frances. — 

Sir, sir, my father is no refugee: — 

From whence? 
Maurice. — From Richmond in Virginia. 

106 



Frances. — 

Richmond, Virginia! 'tis no such thing. 

M)^ father came from England to this State, 

And knows no other State. Virginia! 

Why, sir, my father is an Englishman. 
Maurice. — An Englishman! 
Frances. — An Englishman, I swear it. 

Maurice. — 

And yet I know he is American — 

That you have grasped enough to build defense. 

His name is Robert Belmont: he who killed 

A Colvin in Virginia. I've proof 

Which naught can shake. Come, will you be my wife, 

And save your father from condemning law ? 
Frances. — 

You know this history and speak but thus 

To grace some better news ? 
Maurice. — No, never think 

I prologue sweet with gall or good with ill. 

I grace no better news. 
Frances.— Then this is truth ? 

Maurice. — It is. 

Frances.— O, God defend me! 

Maurice. — This is so : 

Do you consent ? 
Frances.— It is the truth I grasp : 

You would betray my father in his age ; 

You that he cherished even as his son, 

You that but yesterday he called his guejst^ 

You that the time named friend. 
Maurice.— Ay, even I. 

107 



Frances. — Touch him and you touch law. 
Maurice. — Do you consent ? 

Frances. — 

I see ; run through and through with evil times. 

Yet do your worst ; you shall not wrong his age ; 

The world is wide to honest men ; somewhere 

His innocence is free. 
Maurice. — His honored name 

Is here within my mouth that spitting I 

Can vilely mix it with the dust. 
Frances. — And yet 

You said it was an accident. 
Maurice. — I did. 

It may or may not be. 
Frances. — Does he know this ? 

Maurice. — 

That rests with you : you can discover this. 

My suit is with yourself. Do you consent ? 
Frances. — 

Stay, give me time to know you as you are. 

Let me but comprehend that when I speak 

I speak not to a man : so, even so. 

Now to 3^our suit : I must consent to be — 

Your wife. 
Maurice. — If I could have won you honorably 

I had been near the angels ; else decreed, 

I see I'm near the fiends. 
Frances. — I must take thought. 

If I should stay I'll swoon ; let me go in : 

My brain is wrought. 
Maurice. — Take thought and let me know. 

This seems unnatural but it is so. {Exeunt. 

1 08 



Scene 4.—X public vestibule. 
Enter Garland and Bernice. 

Bejrnick. — 

Since Providence does send misfortune oft 
To make us strong, — 
Gari^and. — Do not believe 'tis so. 

Misfortune is not shaped by Providence: 
He gave us minds to take the larger choice. 
To make the best of our calamities, 
Which, to the vi^ise, oft prove advantageous, 
And there 's an end. Is this the larger choice, 
This secretaryship ? 
Bernick.— I think so, sir. 

Gari^and. — 

Well, you have my consent; and yet I fear 
You make this occupation but these months 
Until you come of age, and then you look 
To marriage for release. Take heed of that: 
If you do look to marriage for a trade 
You'll wake to find this marriage a poor trade. 
Bernice.— I try to act with wisdom in all things. 
Garland. — 

Wisdom lives not alone in willing, but 
In every truth o' the mind: then bear with me 
When I give counsel; I speak for the world. 
{Aside.) Yet I will join this league and bear it down 
Discovering the frailty of support, 
That you may yet consent to be my wife. [Exeunt. 
rr.9 



Enter Kirkwood and Fairfield. 

KIRKWOOD. — Is not this a brave destiny league? have 
we not succeeded ? do we not prosper ? are we not a light 
in the land ? We make, we unmake; we say "write this' ', 
and it is written; we say "read this", and it is read; we 
say "believe this", and it is believed. This is the fine 
art of destiny. 

Fairfield. — Ha ! what a consummate free lance our 
official organ will make. 

Kirkwood. — Do you mark that ? You will now get 
the public ear. 

Fairfield. — O could I once get the public ear. 

Kirkwood. — Come, what will you do with the public 
ear when you have it ? 

Fairfield. — Zounds, I will twist it. 

Kirkwood. — You must get out a work on destiny: 
the mere project will bind this league together for seven 
months ; and then I care not. 

Fairfield. — A word to an Irishman — 

Kirkwood. — Is two. Now I am nearer heaven or 
hell by a book. 

Fairfield. — Have you heard that Garland is to join 
the; league ? It will never do ; I hear he believes in 
destiny ; think p' that. 

Kirkwood.— What, the Secretary's guardian ? 

Fairfield. — Yes. 

Kirkwood. — 1 will make an ass of him. ,1 will 
^call a special meeting and have passed a form of initiation 
that if Garland join he will be compelled to run the 
pricks of ceremony with yourself as master of ceremony — 



for he would never join with me as master of ceremony — 
and you shall beat him like an old carpet, all pattern and 
no texture. He imagines himself a philosopher, and it is 
the quintessence of revenge to make an ass of a philoso- 
pher. The faithful can do no wrong. 

Fairfieji^d. — All is fate. lEji:it; 

Enter Lawyer. 

KiRKWOOD. — Here comes my strong man of the law 
who can break a bond with one hand behind him. Well, 
sir, how goes my suit ? 

Lawyer. — If I can locate an old nurse of this Hunter 
family, I believe, on good ground, I can prove that this 
young woman is come of age. 

KiRKWOOD. — Proof: what 's in proof? Sir, law is 
lawyers: you make the jury laugh, you have the evi- 
dence; you make the jury weep, you have the law. This 
is the law and the evidence. 

lyAWYER. — This the law? 

KiRKWOOD. — The law manifest. 

Lawyer. — Come, your suit 's as good as won : a word 
or two with you. {^Exeunt. 

Scene 5. — A pathway. 

Enter Maurice and Laura. 

Laura. — 

You do not greet me with that fond regard 

That you were wont. I have not lost my heart 

That you should greet a blank. 
Maurice. — I greet a blank ! 

I am misjudged. 

Ill 



Laura.— O may I root this out 

Before it prove a cancer on my faith. 

I keep not so much of this constant heart 

To chide inconstancy, and yet your love 

Is no more to be found. Where is it gone ? 
Maurice. — 

I have done wisely in thus seeming cold, 

Yet such a kind of wisdom as lacks for words. 
IvAURA. — 

O I do fear what cannot be explained ; 

The worser half is woman. 
Maurice. — Think not that, 

Lest I should grow unkind. 
Laura. — Have I wronged you ? 

Then give to me my sins ; they are my own. 

Wherein stand I condemned ? 
Maurice. — In speaking thus. 

My whole estate is toppling to its base. 

And I would root out love within your heart 

Who cannot cherish it with luxury. 

Upon a word, I am a beggar. 
Laura.— This ! 

O pardon me that I did doubt your love. 

You're ruined ? 
Maurice. — Virtually: let us take separate ways. 

Laura. — 

Divided! never: poverty has riches; 

And I have that which shall suffice for both. 

If my estate can aid you in this hour — 

As I have heard that credit 's behind gold — 

Use all, and give me words affectionate. 

112 



Maurick. — 

Come in the shade; I have a fever here. 

{Aside.) Now have I forged the strongest link in love 

While I did think to rid this thwarting chain. 

[^Exeicnt. 

Scene 6. — A room in Belmont's house. 
Enter Belmont and Frances. 

BKIvMONT. — 

Now do you know my early history, 
A tragedy extant in human sorrow. 
It is the dregs of anger which I drink; 
And you, my child, have tasted of this cup 
Since, as you say, without the whole event 
You cannot honorably consider marriage 
When one shall ask your heart in fellowship: — 
And I have told you all: — your mother knew. 
What insubstantial thing may break life's thread, 
But who can kill a deed. 

Frances. — Alas, 'tis true. 

Your innocence should have cried from your pure 
youth. 

Bklmont. — 

All things are pure until they have been stained — 
This is the world's decree; and my good name 
Was overmastered by the circumstance. 

Frances. — 

Why, some are angry every day they live 
Yet suffer not like this. 

J 13 



BKl.MON'r. — 

My teachings should have checked m}^ heated pride, 
Which led me to abuse my dearest friend 
And put me from the fullness of the law; 
Yet nature, by no scope of cold respect. 
Will be the handmaid of philosophy; 
We feel the native touch and, in the bias 
Of flesh and blood, we pluck our borrowings off 
And prove the primal stock. Be comforted ; 
I doubt it not that this shall die in me 
And be forgot : and when you are beloved, 
If you are deeply loved, this will not stand 
Against your name, for nature, wise as love, 
Decrees the one we love shall have no past ; 
And by j^our husband I am soon forgot. 
Frances. — 

I'll none of such light-hearted breed : Adieu. 

\^Exit Belmont. 
I cannot find the heart to speak the truth. 
For rather than I sacrifice myself 
Unto this traitor, whom he still calls ** friend," 
He would discover all unto the law ; 
His voice of character cries 'gainst the deed. 
I know not how to act nor where to turn ; 
By mj^ owm light I cannot but succumb, 
And Heaven has but one mouth and that is dumb. 

{Exit. 



114 



Sce7ze 7. — Beside Belmont's house. 

Lucretia discovered above on balcony, veiled in white, and 
partly screened from below by vines and trellis ; Kirkwood and 
Lambert discovered beneath the balcony. 

Lambkrt. — O that I might see her features. 
Kirkwood. — Hark, the heavens open. 

lyUCRKTIA. — {Si7lgs'). 

Bloom, bloom, ye laurel trees. 
And cast your timely crown ; 

Wake, wake, ye symphonies, 
And hymn a new renown : 

O the stars that ride 

On a golden tide 

Have lighted my soldier to me ; 

And his hawking eye, 

When his lyove is by. 

Is kindled like Mars in the sea. 
IvAMBKRT. — Jove, a sweet voice. 
Kirkwood. — Dulcet, dulcet. Now speak the speech. 

I^AMBKRT.— 

The twilight drinks the lips of parting day,— 
A cup to thee, my Queen, 'neath starlit spray, — 
While Love is sporting in the Summer gauze. 
Caught up to heaven in a budding cause: 
The West is warm with Phoebus' golden flight. 
And Dian is unmasked unto the night. 
In such a night young Love might see again. 
With e^^es like stars new lit in Darien. 
,. Kirkwood. — Courage, man; another speech like that 
and she will bring along our best silver spoons. Hush! 



LUCRKTIA. — 

Far througli a golden mist I may espy 
A classic temple shining gloriously, 
Where morn and noon and tender eve above 
Are but the pathos and the smile of love: 
Thither I flee across the glowing dew, 
Warm as Cressida but as Thisbe true. 

KiRKWOOD. — "Warm as Cressida" ! There 's salad. 

lyAMBERT. — Will she come down now, or must I mount? 

KiRKWOOD. — Stand to. When thou art not beside me — 

Lambert. — 

When thou art not beside me, O my Queen, 

Nor up the pleasant valley mayest be seen, 

Then all the glowing air is overcast, 

And Summer's chaplets bend before the blast; 

And, Love, I wander all bereft of light 

And moan for Spring from out unending night. 

Give us leave to talk. Kirk. 

KiRKWOOD. — Wh}^ are you not talking? Did ever 
lovers talk like you two lovers talk ? 
Lambert. — She is all mine? 
KiRKWOOD. — All. Hush ! 

LUCRETIA. — 

Thou'rt in the sap and rose of lustihood, 
And I will flee with thee into the wood. 
When June in beauty walks through glen and glade, 
I'll sport with thee amid the flowery shade; 
Tangling thy crooked curls I'll make sweet moan 
And hymn of one love and that love our own. 
n6 



lyAMBKRT. —Jove, she has some salad in her for all her 
holding back. Do I sigh now? 

KiRKWOOD. — Ay, heave a sigh as if your heart would 
crack. Another, man, another; louder. Courage ; she 
has given you sigh for sigh. 

Lambert. — There 's life in it. 

KiRKWOOD. — Ethereal eighteen. 

I/AMBERT. — I'll have her. I love you, Kirk. 

KiRKWOOD. — That voice again ! — 

Lambert. — 

That voice again! how low, how sweet, how clear; 
Filling the enamoured hollow of the ear 
Like twilight harps upon a Summer strand 
Or chimes from temples gold in faery land. 

KiRKWOOD. — You have subdued her, you have subdued 
her. But you must feed her on these speeches a night or 
two that she grow plump with love. Rein your im- 
patience: remember all things come to those who wait. 

Lambert. — Why the devil does she keep behind those 
jasmines? I want to see her features. She looks white 
as a lily. 

KiRKWOOD. — Don't mar the romance: I promise you a 
view of her the next night. She is ravishing. Is she 
still there? why does'nt she answer? I cannot see any- 
thing smothered in these vines. 

Lambert. — Still there. Is my title certain? a lover's 
heart, you know, is fearful. 

KiRKWOOD. — What, will she not elope? 

Lambert. — Hark ! she is going to speak. 

117 



LUCRKTIA. — 

O crown my Love while heaven witnesseth 
His Queen has called him lord with perfect breath: 
Crown him w^hile swims the moon in golden mist 
And golden stars crowd eagerly to list 
The music of our bridal heard alone 
Within a wood where late the queen moon shone. 
KiRKWOOD. — If this is not constancy, then I never loved. 
lyAMBKRT. — But w^hat does she mean by harping on 
the "woods" ? Sure, she must be "in the woods" herself. 
KiRKWOOD. — Have you no understanding of the fine- 
ness of romance ? I despise 3'ou : let me make love awhile. 
Lambert. — Get in there, or I w^ill choke you. She is 
mine. 

KiRKWOOD. — Hush! don't discover me; 5^ou wdll 
frighten her black and blue. Take your fingers out of 
my hair. O come away — 
Lambert. — 

O come away, m}^ Love, into the gold. 
To dales more fair than ever poet told ; 
Where valleys woo the hills, the hills the sky, 
The sky the .vaHey .tha;t beneath dost lie : 
'Where hushed groves have found their throats again 
And take tl;ie south with their melodious strain. 
Bright orient- birds, wuth, upward wing and glad, 
Will lift thy drooping locks when thou art sad, 
And w^andering waters hide their crystal flow 
To rise more sweet .against thy lips' warm glow. 
Where every shadow of the leaf has got 
A perfume which the morning rose has not. 



But, Kirk, this isn't an apology of making love: I 
want to get my arms around her. 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, you coarse-grained, unsentimental 
fellow, 3^ou deserve no better than to make love to that 
little black wench who sometimes kills rose bugs on yon 
balcony, or is serenaded by lovers of Ham. 
lyUCRKTlA. — 

O Love, I dream my Love dreams of my love, 
And in that dream of love which my Love dreams 
My Love dreams that I dream of his sweet love ; 
And all night long we dream the others dreams. 
Lambkrt. — This is rather tangled love. 
KiRKWOOD. — Hush ! speak the invitation ; but if she 
is coy, have done. Take the banjo and thrum. 
Lambkrt. — This may fetch her. 

O, Love, list to my lovely invitation, 
Hymning thy beauty's height in invocation, 
In throbbing, pleading, yearning invocation. 
{Plays on banjo) 

Star of love and light, 

Streaming from thy sphere 
Far through golden night 

Till the dawn is near, 
Then fading to the passion flower's splendid tear : 

Rose of summer dusk, 

Stirred by dulcet sound 
Till thy balmy musk 

All the air hath drowned, 
And poets dream the Thought within the rose is found : 

J19 



I^ily of the vale, 

Sprung in golden light 
With a splendor pale 
As the Queen of night 
Fading into her mansion on the western height : 

Bird of tropic fire, 

In pomegranate tree, 
Flooding with sweet quire 

All the canopy, 
Until new heavens tremble to thy melody : 

Come, O come away 

Past the starlit wold, 
Past the valleys gray, 

Past the billows rolled, 
Beyond the mountains blue into the farther gold. 

What do I mean, Kirk ? 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, Lucretia 's the star and the rose, 
the lily and the tropic bird. This is a poetical invitation, 
meaning — Come out, sweet, and take a stroll. 

[yAMBERT. — ^Jove, how wonderfully and fearfully poetry 
is made. 

KiRKWOOD. — Poetry is talking 'round a corner. 

Lambert. — But will Lucretia talk 'round a corner with 
me ? that would be poetry. 

KiRKWOOD. — What, did I not tell you she is romantic, 
and will not show her features till you love her ; for sure, 
she said, we must love the angels before we see them, and 
love for Lucretia shall be as man's love for the angels. 

Lambert. — But I love her passionately. 



KiRKWOOD. — Hark ! 

LuCRETiA. — Adieu, my Love ; my only love, adieu. 

Lambert. — O come across the dew, the glowing dew. 

lyUCRETiA. — O not to-night, m}' Love ; O not to-night. 

Lambert. — Ah yes to-night, my Love; ah 3'es to-night. 

LuCRETiA. — Good night, my king; good night, good 
night, good night. 

Lambert. — Good night, my queen; good night, good 
night, good night. 

Lucretia. — My love. 

Lambert. — My soul. 

O, well of Lucretia, I will drav/ back 

Lest I should come unto some sudden confusion 

In the deep wonder of young Love's illusion. 

KiRKWOOD. — Now man, to bed and to dreams. 

S^Exeunt. 




121 



ACT III. 

Scene i. — A lawn before Belmont's house. 

Enter Belmont and Garland. 

Gari^and. — Until ni}^ ward comes of age, it is my ex- 
press wish there be no communication between her and 
your son: as a father I am responsible for her deeds, yet, 
like many fathers, my responsibility has no head and 
carriage in 't. If your authorit}^ can reach your son, I 
request you to break this intercourse between them, the 
end whereof is marriage. 

BkIvMONt. — His years have dissolved my authority, 
but his age approves my wisdom. 

GARI.AND. — He is thrice fortunate, and therein my 
anxiety suffers great abatement. It is well you join to 
this-the loss of her estate, — my ward is not so dear to me 
but I would be grieved to see your son make so destitute 
connection. 

Belmont. — I shall do so. 

Garland. — Ay. As it were — 'tis a hard word against 
one I have cherished. 

Belmont.— Destitution ? 

Garland. — No: unchastity. 

Belmont. — So ! 

Garland. — Enough: I have said. I dissolve my re- 
lations with my ward to-day. {^Exit. 
Enter Kirkwood. 

Belmont. — Is that you, my boy ? 
Kirkwood. — It is. 

122 



Belmont. — Mr. Garland has been speaking with me. 

KiRKWOOD. — He 's not blind, yet has a dog for guide. 

Belmont. — Sir, sir, what do you mean? 

KiRKWOOD. — I was in the summer house, and by 
accident overheard what he said of his ward. 

Belmont. — This saves me painful explanation. 

KiRKWOOD. — Do not believe it, sir. 

Belmont. — I would not credit it on other authority. 
You must not allow your judgment to be seduced ; you 
are young. 

KiRKWOOD. — I grant I am young, yet not too young 
to make this lady my wafe. 

Belmont. — Her guardian has cast her off. 

KiRKWOOD. — Sir, she is come of age. He mistook her 
dead sister's age for hers, — I have the proofs — and his 
authority gone from him he will slander her to estrange 
us that he himself, through her destitution, may force 
her to be his wife. The lady is innocent,' and I will 
make her my wife to-morrow to shield her from further 
insult. Sir, give me your approval. 

Belmont. — Under the circumstances, I withhold it. If 
you desire my love you must forget her. 

KiRKWOOD. — I am deeply grieved, sir, that your com- 
mendation goes not along ; nevertheless, I will make Miss 
Hunter my wife, and, sir, she will do you honor. {Exit. 

Enter Frances. 

Belmont. — Come hither, Frances. What do you 
know of Mr. Garland's ward ; I mean her character. 

Frances. — She is the incarnation of all that is gentle 
and noble. 

123 



Belmont. — Do you know her well? 

Frances. — As few sisters know their sisters. 

Belmont.— That is all. [ExiL 

Frances.— 

The gentleness of woman 's in his heart, 
Yet, should I discover how I am beset 
By this false traitorous friend, what profit it? 
I dare do naught but sufifer ; endure alone 
What passes woman's strength. O misery, 
What answer I shall make I do not know : 
I cannot live and see my father dishonored, 
I cannot live and be this traitor's wife. 

Enter Edith. 

Edith you are welcome. 

Edith. — I trust so. 

Frances. — Do you bring a membership blank of that 
league for reforming men ? 

Edith. — I do not. Why do you ask ? 

Frances. — To anj^ pledge for reforming men, I will 
subscribe my name and thank heaven for the privilege. 

Edith. — A marked change ; a change to ink. 

Frances. — That ink may not be so black but the 
reason is blacker. I have sometimes thought I could 
paint the heavens more fair; now I see I am destined to 
paint the world more foul. 

Edith. — You have been wronged. 

Frances. — Heigh-ho! how do yovi like my new dress: 
does it not become me? am I not enhanced in 't ? When 
woman admires woman — is not that triumph ? 

124 



Edith. — Is woman no more than an institution of 
clothes ? 

Frances. — I care not; there 's nothing serious. Let's 
believe and part: you that way: I this way; and a fig for 
the rest. 

Edith. — ' Tis evident you have been wronged. I have 
certain work to do; I will not allow myself to be incapaci- 
tated through you grieving me; neither will I allow j^ou 
to wrong your friend. Good day. {Exit. 

Enter Hale and Maurice. 

Frances. — Gentlemen, you must entertain me. What, 
did I startle you. Lieutenant? Nay, sit down, sit down. 
Captain Hale, take this magazine and look at the pic- 
tures : I will converse with Lieutenant Colvin ; God made 
him. Will you believe, Lieutenant, that but this mo- 
ment Edith Prescott asked me to join a league founded 
for the purpose of reforming men ? Would you not put 
her down, and that right suddenly? or will you join, 
Lieutenant ? 

Hale. — If your friend will cease an hour to discover 
our faults, she may grow to some acquaintance with our 
virtues. 

Frances. — Will you speak for the Lieutenant? Nay, 
you as well propose to suffice for his honor as his voice. 
Is not your soldier's honor your most cherished possess- 
ion. Lieutenant Colvin ? 

Maurice. — I have my discharge. Miss Belmont ; I am 
no longer a soldier. 

125 



Frances. — O you must say "honorable discharge,"' 
lest those who know you not be left in doubt. Let me 
instruct you. 

Hale. — You do it masterly. 

Frances. — Nay, if a soldier has not his honor, he has^ 
nothing handsome about him. The Lieutenant will sup- 
port me. 

Hale. — We, then, Miss Belmont, have something 
handsome about us ? 

Frances. — O, sir, when you have nothing witty to 
say, read the advertisements. 

Hale. — Good ; I will. {Affecthig to read) Wanted ; 
a good angel. 

Frances. — Hush ! hush ! read no further, read no 
further: "a good angel"; I want a "good angel," 
gentlemen. 

Hale. — Allow me to be 3^our "good angel," Miss 
Belmont? 

Frances. — No, Lieutenant Colvin will be my "good 
angel ": will you not. Lieutenant? 

Maurice. — In all things, Miss Belmont. 

Frances. — So kind, so kind. Nay, do not go, Lieu- 
tenant: I am sure 3'ou have leisure. Am I not right, 
Captain Hale; has he not leisure^ 

Hale. — If I am not mistaken, he has some two hours 
of leisure; but few have leisure to be miserable. 

Frances. — What, two hours of leisure, two hours! 
and yet will leave me with the ennui, the quintessence of 
all ills. Ah, Lieutenant, if you have any consideration 

126 



for my feelings, I pray you stay. Take this magazine 
and fan me; while Captain Hale at my feet looks on and 
approves. Now we are contented. 

Hale. — Exceedingly. 

Francks. — Heigh-ho ! I would Edith were here ; we 
might then discourse of — botany. 

Hale. — What, has the lady ever seen a rose? 

Frances. — And why not, sir? 

Hale. — I had thought she could not see a rose for the 
canker: and yet the canker may smell as sweet to her as 
the rose. 

Frances. — Is 't possible wit is catching, that you at 
my feet have caught my wit ? Yet that cannot be, for 
lyieutenant Colvin, at my head, is as silent as the lost. 
But, indeed, you do the lady wrong: I cannot but remem- 
ber she labors to reform men. 

Hale. — O let her reform her reformation. 

Frances. — I will not believe that there is any man 
who is wholly bad. Did you ever know an unprinci- 
pled, deliberate scoundrel, Lieutenant Colvin? 

Maurice. — I may have. Miss Belmont. 

Hale. — Colvin will tell you a story of such an one, if 
you will but attend. 

Frances. — What, Lieutenant, will you? or perhaps 
you have already told me of this ruffian ? 

Maurice. — I know not of whom he speaks. 

Hale. — I will take it upon myself. When we were in 
service. Miss Belmont, a certain ex-athlete insulted an 
American lady, and Colvin and I summoned him before a 
committee of two, and all that followed followed that. 

127 



Frances. — Did you so? Lieutenant, will you be so 
kind as to break me two rose-buds from that bush ? and 
many thanks. Captain Hale, I pin this rose on you : 
know that it is for chivalr3^ Lieutenant Colvin, I pin 
the mate on you : know that it is for chivahy. You are 
my two chivalrous cavaliers and, as 3^ou are true gentle- 
men, you will never conflict the rose. 

Hale. — By this light, I will cherish it. 

Frances. — And what says Lieutenant Colvin ? 

Maurice. — The rose is given. 

Frances. — Ah! "the rose is given". 

Hale. — Doubt him not. Miss Belmont ; how goes the 
proverb — Few words and many deeds. A homely phrase, 
but the homelier the wiser. Is it not so, Colvin ? 

Maurice. — It is said to be so. 

Frances. — O I am awearj^ : I marvel 3^ou will spin 
such home-spun phrases. 

Hale. — My distaff's broken ; I spin nothing. 

Frances. — Is that "distaff" the Greek of your wit for 
woman? Then it is true 3^our distaS is broken, for I am 
your distaff and I am broken. Pity me, gentlemen. 

Hale. — No, we will not. If any here has broken you 
once, 3'ou have broken him an hundred times : if any 
here has mocked you once, 3'ou have mocked him past all 
count but the count of the recording angel. The sum of 
scorn is a double sum ; one taken and one given. 

Frances. — In the magazine Lieutenant Colvin is 
fanning me with, there is a story of a traitor on the field. 
What do they do with a traitor on the field. Captain Hale, 
— as it is written ? 

128 



HAI.E. — As it is written, if it is written wisely. 

Frances. — Was there any traitor in your regiment ? 

Hale. — One, Miss Belmont. 

Frances. — That must be ; a war without a traitor is 
too good to be true. Yet is a traitor on the field 
blacker than a traitor to humanity that, in the tale, the 
traitor to his country dies, but the traitor to humanity, 
his ofiicer, prospers ? 

Hale. — 'Tis an incomplete tale. 

Frances. — I will believe it is — that Justice is the true 
and eternal finis. 

Enter a Servant. 

Servant. — Miss Frances, your father would speak 
with you. 

Frances. — I thank you : I will attend. {.Exit Serva^it. 

Gentlemen, I will not invite you in ; no, you were too 
willing to take your leave. I say I will not invite you 
to come into the house, but here bid you good day. 

Hale. — We were even now taking our leave ; then 
there is no offense. Good day. Miss Belmont. [Exeunt. 

Scene 2.—K walk before Garland's house. 
Enter Garland and Kirkwood. 
KiRKWOOD. — 

That you shall prosper in this perjury. 
The devil therein must use his own too well 
To credit the belief. 
Garland. — Out of my sight. 

129 



KlRKWOOD. — 

It is a devil's oflBce and a devil fills it. 

Slander your ward who looked to 3^ou for shield ! 

If she had had a dog he had bit you. 

What, slander the defenseless with foul lips, 

Befouled with kissing sin ! 
Garland. — Out of my sight, 

Or I will make you rue 't. 
KlRKWOOD. — There is a tongue 

In every inch a coward and you, sir. 

Shall cry to heaven that this is a lie, 

A slanderous lie. 
Garland. — You are a puppy snarling, 

And I will muzzle you. 
KlRKWOOD. — When you play the dog. 

You do 't with experience. 
Garland. — I'll ha' the law. 
KlRKWOOD.— You do mistake the law: 

It is a halter swinging. 
Garland. — Will 3^ou be gone? 

KlRKWOOD. — 

Not till I tell v/hat devils think of you. 
The devil himself but naming you a friend 
Does therein fall again. 
Garland. — Respect m^^ age. 

KlRKWOOD. — 

Respect the devil for antiquity. 

O that I knew that word in twent}^ tongues 

To lash you with 'em all. 

130 



Garland. — You puppy there, 

Have I not been a father to this girl ? 
Have I not stood aside when she would run ? 
Have I not made my heaviest hour a toy 
For her to cast away? Have I not been 
A father in all things but in command ? 
Which turns against me now. Yet there you stand, 
And call my work in question like a dog 
In which the power of language has been thrust. 

KiRKWOOD. — 

give the devil words and he is risen; 

And there 's no sin but where no word may reach. 
You made her but 3'Our chattel till of late, 
When her appraisement suffered sudden change 
In her maturity; and with this change 
You torment her with marriage till she 's sick. 
Ha ! I have wondered for these seven years 
If that a dog could speak what he would say; 
But since you spoke behind that suminer house, 
Outrageously slandering your helpless ward, 

1 have not wondered more ; with that I knew. 

{Exit Garland. 
How wise I grow in his company. 

Enter Bernice. 

Bernice. — Alas ! you have been quarrelling with Mr. 
Garland: I overheard passionate words pass between you. 

KiRKWOOD. — No, sweet, believe me, we have not been 
quarrelling, not exactly quarrelling. It was this way : 
your ex-guardian was endeavoring to tell me what he is 

131 



with my tongue. It was a compromise, Bernice ; he 
brought the subject, I brought the language ; for what 
says the adage — Let us help one another. 

Bkrnice. — For shame. Kirk, for shame. 

KiRKWOOD. — {^Kissing her) Ruminate on that. We 
are to be married to-morrow : you shall stay at Edith 
Prescott's home to-night. 

Bernice. — Have you your father's approval? 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, with this little axe behind me, I 
cannot tell a lie. No, Bernice : I have not as yet my 
father's approval, for he, poor gentleman, is laboring 
under a mistake. 

Bernice. — I will never add to discord : you must gain 
your father's approval. He was ever gentle to me : I 
will be considerate to him. 

KiRKWOOD. — We are like two parallel lines in love — 
never to meet. I have performed the labor of Hercules, 
yet I am not to enjoy the reward of Ajax. Is 't possible 
you love me, Bernice, when you have remaining so much 
heart for others ? For your sake I'd be sorely tempted 
to do all things and would do most things. Come, 
sweet, tell me how much you love me. 

Bernice. — So deeply, Kirk, I would be nothing 
ignoble. 

KiRKWOOD. — But, dear heart, you must no longer 
abide beneath yon roof; you are unhappy there. In 
faith, I plucked you for a red rose, but I am like to wear 
you for a white one. You must accept Edith Prescott's 
invitation and live at her home till I remove these pillars 
of Hercules, I mean the mistake my father is laboring 
under. 

132 



Bernich. — It is mj'- intention, now I am come of age. 
Will you walk in and see Mildred? 

KiRKWOOD. — Since that same griffin-guardian is not 
within, I will enter the castle; and the word is — 
Open gates, 
A soldier waits. {Exeunt. 

Scene 3. — A lawn before Belmoni's house. 

Enter Hale and Frances. 

Halk. — 

Miss Belmont, pardon me; nor be distressed 
That I thus follow on my recent speech 
And sweet response. Go to your memory, 
And know you promised at some future time 
To satisfy this doubt as whether you 
Will be my wife or no. Is that time come ? — 
Since I know not the tenure of this bond — 
Or may I hope to know or soon or late ? 
Or have my hopes gone by upon the night? 

Frances. — 

pardon me ; I am subdued to doubt 
And may not speak. A little longer pause, 
And then the bond is broken. 

Hale. — You speak from grief. 

Veiling a sorrow in hushed courtesy; 

Then, dearest lady, let me not intrude. 
Frances. — Another's sorrow is another's still. 
Hale. — I make your griefs my own. 
Frances. — Yet leave me now; 

1 am not well. 

133 



Hale. — Then I am poor indeed 

In having health yet having not the power 

To use it as I would. 
Frances. — A dream sticks at my heart 

And will not off. 
Hai,e. — What is 't you dream of grief? 

I would not have you grieve within a dream. 
Frances. — 

It is not what I dream but what I live. 

I'd rather live a dream, an hideous dream, 

Than dream of what I live. I speak too far. 

Indeed, I do but dream; yet can each day 

Banish what the night has feared ? 
HAI.E. — Tell me your dream. 

And I'll interpret it full fair. 
Frances. — O, Daniel, 

Beware interpreting another's dream 

lycst you interpret your own. But look you, sir, 

Do I not smile you off? 
Hale. — A subdued smile. 

Frances. — 

In truth, that smile 's a book : read it who can. 

If grief inscribed the text, let sorrow read it, 

If joy inscribed the text, let gladness read it. 

take my words but as a woman's words, 
Spoken that more may follow ; even thus. 

1 am disconsolate : I know not why ; 
There is no reason that I should be so. 
I am not merry, yet I know not why ; 
There is no reason that I should be so. 
Touching that consubstantial suit of yours, 
Have patience, sir. 

134 



HAI.E. — So, I must be content ? 

Frances. — Content with patience? 
HaIvE.— No, with that sad smile. 

Frances. — What, will you have me smile again? 
Hale. — I mean 

I must be ignorant of your distress — 

Content with ignorance. 
P'rances. — Adieu, adieu. 

Haee. — 

Miss Osborn is addressed ; she takes my place. 

I would have eyes to see what is behind 

And meet it with my strength, but I'm dismissed. 

[^Exit. 

Enter Laura. 

Laura. — Frances, my truest friend. 
Frances. — Laura, is 't you? 

How is 't with you ? 
Laura. — Most kind. 

Frances.— 'Tis well, 'tis well. 

O when shall you be married, tell me that. 
Laura. — I cannot say. Is Maurice at your home? 
Frances. — You know he 's not. 
Laura. — How do I know he 's not? 

My knowledge questions this. 
Frances. — How may that be ? 

He 's not my father's guest of late. 
Laura. — Indeed ! 

Perchance he 's 3^ours ? 
Frances. — Laura, what do you mean? 

135 



Laura. — 

I mistook you for that false coquette 
Whose features and whose manner different 
Have stolen Maurice's love. O pardon me, 

1 took you for that Frances. 
Frances. — Alas, what 's this ! 
Laura. — A woman wronged ! 
Frances. — O, Laura, Laura, Laura ! 
Laura. — 

What has he seen in that false face of yours ? 
What does the fly see in the spider's e^^e? 
How have you rooted out his constancy ? 
This constancy I still believed my own — 
But this was 'fore I knew m}^ friend. 

Frances. — O me. 

Where now is that sweet faith and sisterhood, 
That love that did not weary. O, sweet friend, 
Lay not this deed to me. I am so grieved 
I cannot make defense. 

Laura. — My ears are stopped. 

Have I not seen this most ingenuous shame, 
Foul treason, ripening without a blush ? 
He hastens from my side to come to 3^ou, 
And siren-like you draw him hour by hour 
While I am left to know. Take up 3'our shame, 
I've nursed it till it stings. {Exit. 

Frances. — Poor unschooled heart. 

Enter Maurice. 

136 



Maurice.-— 

Shall I be answered in my grounded suit ? 

Or shall the tale be told ? Deny that suit, 

'Tis not alone the law condemns 3^our father 

But society dishonors you. 
Frances. — Then it is true 

I must forget my hopes. Have you no fear ? 

No pity ? no friendship ? 

Maurice. — Pity I've not, 

Unless I have your heart to pity with : 

Your beauty has killed most of that in me 

And I have killed the rest. Fear I have not ; 

Nor know I what 'tis like. Friendship I 've not, 

For this I have foregone for deeper stuff : 

When first I looked on you and heard your voice 

I fell into an adoration, thence 

Into a longing, thence into a fever, 

Thence to a scheming, and by this declension 

Into this sin wherein you find me still. 

Nor think because I call it sin I pause : 

Sin is become a word to me, no more ; 

A syllable from some fast-fading dream 

Caught up to be rejected without sense 

Or meaning in this world wherein I act. 

Frances. ^ — 

Is then the conscience dead, and stand I here 
Environed by your person and your speech ? 
Most bitter and most cruel. 

Maurice. — Come, answer me : 

To be my wife or give your father up 
To the condemning law ? that breath to sow 
Dishonor in the general ear. 

137 



Krancks, — O shame! 

Turn from the deed and profit like a man 

May profit every day — by being a man. 

Sell not your honor for this paltry sum : 

Make not the sacred altar but a block : 

Stain not that awful fabric of your soul ; 

The finer spirit dare the least offend 

Being more variously touched. 
Maurick. — This is the truth 

And is not you : I am not here for truth 

Only for you. 
Francks. — I.ose not that finer part 

That makes division 'tween me and the less: 

Sell not your judgment for the thing that's judged; 

The genius for the painting. O be kind, 

And kindness shall suffice. 
Maurick. — I^et it suffice 

When I am kind. 
Francks. — O look beyond the deed: 

If beauty be the price set on your truth, 

Know that you sell your truth for that base clod 

That lies beneath your feet ; so shall I be 

Kre you can cleanse your heart. 
Mauricjc. — This will .suffice: 

Your father falls. 
Francks. — O I do part believe 

An honored name will prove a slanderer's bane. 

Maurick. — 

Humanity down, perjury becomes its truth 
And truth its perjury ; an angel's evidence 



Is discredited, but calumny in the lowest 
Can bring it lower. Doubt not this is so, 
The truth as experience has writ it down. 
Frances. — To suffer all things is to believe all things. 

Maurick. — 

Think that I sought you in the better way 

As men seek what they love: fortune I have 

Of no unworthy rate : station I have : 

Accomplishments as bounteous as the schools: 

Intelligence, refinement, gentle blood: 

An honor tainted only in my love — 

One who is fallen as your father fell. 

Repenting ere the injury was done, 

Remorseful in the deed, stricken when past; 

But pushed by that necessity of sin 

Which makes us all offending ; that first sin 

That 's less a sin than an experience 

And birth of our remorse. 
Francbxs. — Brave .sin economist. 

O spare not sin that it beget remorse 

And works of repentance. 
Mauricic. — Choose, and so end. 

FranciJvS. — You know my answer. 
Maurick. — You will be my wife ? 

Frances. — No : never, never, never ! 
Maurice. — Then 'tis done : 

Your father shall be ruined, your name dishonored. 
Frances. — 

O when you stand beyond this evil deed 

Remember that an angel stood by you 

139 



Upon the better side and bid you pause, 
The conscience and the human heart divine. 

Enter Belmont at a distance. 

Maurice. — lyook where your father is. I go my way 

Frances. — Stay, do not go. 

Maurice. — Why should I longer pause? 

Frances.— I do consent. \.Exit Belmont. 

Maurice. — You are apparelled ; come. 

Frances. — 

With due ceremony let the deed be done : 

Let Heaven be offended, but not men. 

For there is light and here it is all dark, 

And human judgment is a woman's life. 

A little longer pause that we may cast 

The mantle of ceremony o'er that block 

Where vv'omen still are sold to slavery 

As base as ever known, and make the church 

The whited sepulcher so fair without 

But foul as death within. Go, learn your trade. 

\^Exit Maurice. 
My beauty comes between me and the light. 
I cannot doubt it now ; and once 'tis stript 
He will no longer press this heavy suit : 
And when I am deformed he will be dumb, 
Since I can hold dishonor 'gainst dishonor. 
Against my father's ruin set this shame 
Of seeking me in marriage thus most foul; 
While fear of honor will o'ersway revenge. 
My beauty is a prison which once down 
My father is released. O, cruel bars, 

140 



I'll break you one by one : beauty, begone, 

You that was still a household word to me — 

And yet I saw no serpent in that word — 

Begone I say. If vitriol has that power 

To kill you in the flower, I 've that will 

To root you out and this cruel serpent kill. ^Exit. 

Scene 4. — A street. 

Enter Fairfield and Foote. 

FAIRFIE1.D. — Stand aside, Foote, and give me room to 
laugh. 

FooTK. — Why, what 's the matter now? I thought 
you were up at the hall initiating a new member into our 
destiny league. 

Fairfikld. — Faith, no; j^oung Belmont has slipped 
into my mask and he 's initiating Garland now, beating 
him like an old carpet. 

FooTK. — I had a box of cigars from Kirkwood for 
voting for that initiation bill. What was the bug in 't ? 

FAIRFIEI.D. — There 's a tale's tale. Do you think this 
destiny league was founded to convict the public ? 

Foote. — Why, so it has the better part : that official 
organ of ours is in the seventh edition. 'Tis the emanci- 
pation of destiny. 

Fairfikld. — By this time Garland should be riding 
the ram of Atropos in the sign of Lachesis. That 's the 
twenty-fourth degree: eight more degrees to follow and a 
warm evening. 

141 



FooTE. — This is destiny and to boot. 
Fairfield. — Tut, we have the law and the laugh on 
our side ; may the good work go on. 

FooTE. — All is fate. Come up. lExemit. 

Scene 5. — A lawn before Belmont's house. 

Enter Lambert. 

Lambert. — Now was that Lucretia or Belmont's sister 
I passed at the gate? Hair o' gold, violet eyes : why, 
she exceeds conjecture. But Lucretia is ethereal eighteen, 
while this young lady must be some older. However, 
I 'm no judge of a woman's age under forty-five, and 
then it goes hard if she keeps her bust. 

Efiter Lucretia. 

Lucretia. — (Aside) La, here is my paramour. 

Lambert. — Is Miss Lucretia Floyd within the house, 
Miss? 

Lucretia. — No, sir: that lady just stepped out of 
the premises. 

Lambert. — (Aside) Jove, it was Lucretia I saw at 
the gate : what a lucky fellow I am. When Miss Lucretia 
Floyd returns will you oblige me b}' giving her these 
flowers and this box of confectioner}^ ? and here's a dollar 
for you, Miss, for yellow ribbons or hosiery. 

Lucretia. — Sir, retain your advances for the retinue. 
I will accept the flovv^ers and confectionery : when Miss 
Lucretia Floyd returns she shall possess them and render 
her compliments. 

142 



Lambert. — (Aside) Sure the Belmonts must pay their 
servants in dictionaries; or else she gets this of Lucretia, 
for her letters are passion in six syllables. 

IvUCRKTiA. — May this confectionery be chocolate 
creams ? 

Lambert. — Yes, Miss, chocolate creams. 

LuCRETiA. — La, the lady is so fond of chocolate creams; 
the darkest chocolate cream has a white heart. These 
particular flowers, sir, have an exquisite aroma: I am so 
fond of violets and lilies of the valley. 

Lambert. — (Aside) Wh}^, she has actually smelt 
them ! She will be eating the chocolates next and calling 
me " Lamb". But, Miss, will you not take them in and 
put them in a vase of water? I would not have them 
fade before the lady has them for a pearl of Ind. 

LucRETiA, — La, how romantic you talk. Do you re- 
ciprocate the lady so passionately ? 

Lambert. — (Aside) I must not offend her or she will 
put me out with Lucretia's guardian. ,Here, Miss, is a 
pretty ring I brought from the war : let me put it on your 
hand. You will be my friend ? (Puis the ri?ig on 
Lucretia's finger). 

Lucretia. — La, sir, you have placed it on my nuptial 
finger. 

Lambert. — (Aside) Her nuptial thumb. What next? 
Do we agree now. Miss ? 

Lucretia. — "Till death do us part." 

Lambert. — Why, what the devil — 

Enter Kirkwood. 

O, get into the house ! here is Kirk ! get in ! Jove ! 

{Exit Lucretia, 
143 



KiRKWOOD. — O, Lambert, Lambert, I tremble for you. 

Lambert. — No, believe me. Kirk, I didn't take her in 
my confidence: I was "sly," as you say; "peculiarly 
sly." 

KiRKWOOD. — Will 3^ou do it, really? 

Lambert. — No, Kirk, as 3^ou love me, believe me. I 
asked her if she knew her mother, I mean her grand- 
mother, I mean — O, the devil, can't you give a lover a 
little rope? I mean liberty, Kirk, liberty. 

KirkW'OOD. — And did she show you the picture of 
Lucretia ? 

Lambert. — No : but she showed me something better; 
the sweet original. 

KiRKWOOD, — No. 

Lambert. — Yes. 
Kirkw^ood. — No, I say. 
Lambert. — I say, she did. 

Kirkw^ood.— Weil : and w'hat do you think of the 
sweet original ? 

Lambert. — Ravishing ! hair o' gold, violet eyes. 
Wh}^ man, she exceeds conjecture. 

KiRKWOOD. — (Aside) Frances. 

Lambert. — But, my good fellow, tell me this: why did 
you not keep Lucretia for yourself? 

KiRKWOOD. — Zounds, sir, I 'm a man of honor. But 
how came this little wench to show Lucretia to 3'ou ? 

Lambert. — Wh}^ to be precise, she did not; she mere- 
ly sustained me in a lover's intuition. I passed an angel 
at the gate, and when I asked this little wench if Miss 
Lucretia Floyd w^as in, she said that Lucretia had but 

141 



that moment quit the house, and then I knew this angel 
at the gate was Lucretia herself. 

KiRKWOOD. — So it was in this manner you first saw 
your angel. Let me congratulate you, Lambert, in the 
love of Miss Lucretia Floyd. 

Lambert. — I accept your congratulations. May she 
have a twin sister who shall become your bride. 

KiRKWOOD. — Thanks, Lambert, thanks. But hold, I 
have something for you : I brought it down to your room 
but you were out. Here, take it, take it ; cherish it, 
cherish it. (Gives Lambert a small parcel.) 

Lambert. — In tissue ! What is 't, a jewel ? 

KiRKWOOD. — Ay, ay, Lucretia' s garter. 

Lambert. — Lucretia's garter ! 

KiRKWOOD. — Now, Lambert, you are a knight of the 
garter and Ho?ii soil qui mal y pense; which, translated 
from the vulgar, means, "Shame to him who evil thinks." 

Lambert. — I take it with protestation. 

KiRKWOOD. — You take this with protestation, yet take 
the lady and the mate without protestation ? Be easy. 

Lambert. — I'll wear it over my heart. But, Kirk, 
cannot you find some finer speeches for Lucretia than 
those cheap things I spoke last time ? and something in 
prose ; poetry is hell. 

KiRKWOOD. — I will, Lambert, I will. Give me your 
hand : I wall be both good angel and godfather to you. 

Lambert. — Godfather! Have you no sentiment? no 
delicacy of feeling ? 

KiRKWOOD. — Tut, do not fall back on forgotten senti- 
ment. Why, yes, I will be faithful even in twins. 

Lambert. — Twins ! 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, man, there 's no more harm in 
triplets than in three white roses on one stem. What 

145 



teapot have you been sailing to get this queasj^ stomach ? 
All is nature ; a sextuple itself is nature, for what saj^s 
the adage, Nature is nature in maximum and minimum 
and suffers no detriment by nature. Go, write that 
golden phrase over the nursery : Nature is nature in 
maximum and minimum and suffers no detriment by 
nature. 

lyAMBKRT. — ^Jove, Kirk, you 're the better part brain 
and, if it's a boy, I'll name him after you. 

KiRKWOOD. — I call this a burthen of gratitude. But 
say no more, Lambert, say no more. Come up to my 
room : I have some speeches for you to memorize. You 
speak them to-morrow night beneath Lucretia's window, 
and then elope. The spirit is willing and the flesh is 
waiting. ^Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Sce7ie J. — A ballroom. 

Belmont, Colvin, Hale, Maurice, a German, a Lieutenant, 
Frances, Laura, Conductor and Ladies and Gentlemen in Cotillion, 
and others, discovered. 

CoLViN. — Maurice, a word before the next dance. 

Maurice. — Uncle, is 't you? How, I did not know 
you had returned. 

C01.VIN. — But an hour since, and hearing you had 
attended this dance — 

Maurice. — How long have you been here? 

146 



CoLViN. — A few moments. 

Maurice.— Then, sir, j^ou have not yet met General 
Belmont ? 

C01.VIN. — No : but for that purpose I am here. Which 
is he? 

Maurice. — {Aside) If he meet Belmont, I am ruined. 
I must deceive him. 

C01.VIN. — He is present, I understand. 

Maurice. — Present? yes, yes. Yonder he stands be- 
side the evergreen. 

CoLViN. — How, the gentleman with the eyeglasses? 

Maurice. — So. But do not ask for an introduction 
to-night : I must get my place. You shall meet him later. 

CoLViN. — Assuredly this is not my old schoolfellow. 
His stature alone discredits it. 

Maurice. — Do you stay ? I am called. 

CoLViN. — No : I will take my leave. Good night, 
Maurice. 

Maurice. — Good night, sir. ^ [Exit Colvin. 

{Aside) 'Twill serve, 'twill serve. I must marry the 
daughter before he meets the father. IRetires. 

(A Figure and Waltz: music). 

BeIvMONT. — {Adva7ices) Why, sir, do you not join in 
the waltz ; cannot you find a partner ? Engage a lady. 
What, a soldier and a wall-flower? 

Lieutenant. — Sir, had I been told at one-and-twenty 
I should be a Lieutenant at six-and-twenty, I would have 
learned to lead a cotillion. As it is, I know not the steps. 

BeIvMONT. — For a soldier to dance is high policy in 
army polity. 

147 



Lieutenant. — Have you a daughter here, may I ask? 

Belmont. — Ay, one daughter. 

Lieutenant. — Sir, though she 's as fair as the Three 
Graces, there is present a fairer lady. 

Belmont. — Which is she, Lieutenant? 

Lieutenant. — Why, the Conductor's partner ; Miss 
Belmont, daughter of General Belmont. 

Belmont. — As I am an old soldier, she is a fair lady. 
Can you point me out General Belmont himself. Lieu- 
tenant? I would meet the General: I have a son of 
three-and-twenty ; I would have such a sweet lady for 
daughter. 

Enter Colvin. 

Lieutenant. — Yonder he stands behind Mr. Colvin, 
the gentleman who just entered : him with the eye- 
glasses. I overheard Lieutenant Colvin recognize him 
as General Belmont. I will mark the waltz. 

Belmont. — Stay : is that elderly gentleman kin to 
Lieutenant Colvin ? 

Lieutenant. — An uncle to Lieutenant Colvin. 

Belmont. — Are you positive? 

Lieutenant. — I am. 

Belmont. —Perhaps you overheard some one desig- 
nate him as a Colvin and an uncle to Lieutenant Colvin, 
and are mistaken? 

Lieutenant. -No, sir, I have known him several 
years. Excuse me, I will mark the dance. ^Retires. 

Belmont. — (Aside) How like this Colvin is to that 
Colvin who held me guilty of his son's death. It is sure- 
ly the brother of Richard Colvin, and, if I am discovered 

148 



by him, he will charge me with his brother's death, dis- 
honoring my children. O man's mistaking of man ! 

\_Exit, 

COLVIN. — {Advances) {Aside) I will speak with this 
Belmont and ascertain his place of birth. I may be mis- 
taken in his stature. Here he comes. 

German. — {Advaiices) Can you tell me, sir, who is 
the Leader's lady ? she queens it visibly. 

C01.VIN. — I am in ignorance. Go to the young men 
for the name of the fairest. 

German. — 'Tis well led, 'tis well led : but the cotillion 
is conducted some different on the Continent. 

C01.VIN. — Do you come from the Continent, may I ask? 

German. — I am a German. Pardon me, I will speak 
with my daughter. [Retires. 

C01.VIN. — {Aside) A German ! Then Maurice is right; 
this is not Robert Belmont, my old schoolfellow. I won- 
der if he lives and still believes the world holds him 
guilty of my death. It seems I shall never know. [Exit. 

[Enter ait attendant ivith flags and 
gives them to the Conductor. 

Frances. — {Adva?ices ivith Condiictor) Are we to have 
the flag figure ? 

Conductor. — What, are we not soldiers and the lovers 
of soldiers? 

Frances. — I grant these are soldiers, if the officers 
can be called soldiers, and lovers of soldiers ; but the 
ladies, sir, are not the lovers. 

Conductor.— Which, then, are the lovers? 

Frances. — Wh}^ the soldiers ; do they not love them- 
selves ? 

149 



Conductor. — You are bitter to-night. Has the ar- 
rangement of the figures displeased you ? 

Frances. — No, truly, 'tis I am wear3^ 

Conductor. — Can triumph weary ? 

Frances. — Ay, I am crowned, but what of these 
un-crowned. 

Conductor. — You acknowledge the triumph ? 

Frances. — No, I acknowledge the victory. 

{^Hale advances. 

Conductor. — I must instruct the inexperienced and 
distribute my flags. You shall distribute yours when 
you are rested. Till then I leave you with Captain Hale. 

{Retires. 

Frances. — Sir, he has left me with you. Will you 
oblige a disease by catching it ? 

Hale. — Are beauty and triumph ever bitter ? 

Frances. — Are the foolish ever wise? 

Hale. — Even a fool can admire. 

Frances. — I will listen for that. Come, tell me of 
my beauty ; no one overhears : nothing but " beauty " to- 
night. Come, speak ; if you ever flattered, flatter now. 

Hale. — Cannot beauty see itself with eyes that are its 
soul? 

Frances. — Can the eye see the eye? 

Hale. — Yet beauty can see its image though the eye 
cannot see the eye, for beauty lies in the judgment of 
others, and the mirror of beauty is compliment. 

Frances. — Then, though I lose my beauty, I shall be 
fair while men praise? 

150 



Hale. — The memory of your beauty will exceed the 
beauty of others. The hushed lark is sweeter than the 
singing linnet. 

FrancKvS. — Now is the rose of compliment full blown ; 
and even now it 'gins to wither. 

HAI.K.— There is a budding rose in the canker; as my 
compliment withers my love buds. 

Frances. — Is it only budding ? I will have love full 
blown. Speak figures, for here is the thief of love. 

Maurice. — (^Advances) The military flag march fol- 
lows, Miss Belmont. 

Frances. — And then the crow Night shall feed her 
ravens. Is not that a hungry figure ? 

Hale. — This hungry figure shall follow the flag march. 

Frances. — No, no; it is written, "On with the dance." 
Which shall it be, Lieutenant ? 

Maurice. — As it is written. 

Frances. — Then, on with the dance. 'O my eyes ache 
counting the wall-flowers. Since Hannibal's cavaliers 
cooled their dancing heels in the Alps, I know of no war 
iu which so few of the soldiers could dance. I will open 
a dancing school and instruct these mock cavaliers, or 
may never morrow dawn on my beauty. 

Conductor. — (^Advances) Miss Belmont, you will 
please distribute these duplicate flags to the gentlemen. 
{Gives Fra7ices flags). 

Frances. — Treason, sir, treason ! here is the flag of 
Spain against the Stars and Stripes. 

Conductor. — Ho ! let the Arnold be searched out. 

151 



Frances. — Hush ! hush ! on with the dance. Captain 
Hale, take Old Glory under which you fought so gal- 
lantly. {Gives Hale an American flag). Lieutenant 
Colvin, to you the flag of Spain ; dance under that. 
{Gives Maurice a Spanish flag). To the rest as it please 
a woman. IRetires. 

Halk. — You have it full, Colvin : can you bear it out ? 

Maurice. — Let the period attest. 

\Music; military flag march; then dance, etc. 

First Gentleman. — {Adva7ices with Secojid Gentle- 
man) A patriotic march that. 

Second Gentleman. — A politic dance of nations — 
each with itself. Did you mark how they put Lieutenant 
Colvin under the flag of Spain ? 

First GentleMxIn. — A grim honor i' the eye o' the 

time. Come, the dance is ended. 

{Then retire. 

Frances {Advances iviih Hale) Cannot you find my 
father? 

Hale. — He is gone ; 

But I will be 3^our cavalier to-night 

And see you to your rest. 
Frances.— The first in praise 

Seize on m}^ hand. 
Hale. — Am I not first in praise, 

And first in love? 
Frances. — And first in jealousy. 

Hale. — 

Let me not praise j'ou as we praise a star 

In the immeasurable heavens, too far to hear; 

152 



But even as the wind may praise a shell 
Which makes that praise its music. 

Frances. — This is sweet, 

But is it love platonic ? 

Hale. — Love platonic ! 

In your fair eyes the ineffectual fire 
Of his ideal 'gins to pale for death: 
Before your lightest breath his works are chaff. 
Plato makes not a letter in your name. 
A living w^oman for a dead philosopher 
Is the new enlightenment, to whose articles 
I am subscribed. 

Frances. — Indeed ! you are forsworn. 

You swore our love should be platonic love: 
The oath is not yet cold. 

Hale. — The oath was love's: 

To please the one I love I forswore love; 
And love forsworn for love 's a triple bond 
Of love, of kindness, and of charity.^ 

Frances. — 

Now night has snuffed the wick of all pastime 
And leaves us darkling : ended is the dance, 
Ended the music and the passioned maze. 
Ended the compliment and triumph sweet. 
Good night, good night. 

Hale. — Bid good morrow to pleasure. 

Frances. — 

It is the heart that makes occasions deep: 
To these this is a dance and nothing more, 
An occupation for a skipping toe; 
But I have tasted that within the wine 
Of which the heart drinks deep. 

153 



Hale. — Give it a name. 

Frances. — Not "love". 

Hale.— Not "love"? 

Frances. — Perchance ' * platonic love ' '. 

Once more search for my father while I wait. 
Hale. — Now I am humble yet I dare obey. \^Reth'es. 
Frances. — {Aside) 

Then farewell beauty, farewell compliment; 

And 3^ou, too, chivalry, and j^ou, triumph: 

To-morrow I must wake with face deformed 

To shield my father from this traitor friend, 

For what is noble that I think is true. 

And what is noble that I mean to do. 
Hale. — {Advaftces.) I'm told your father 's gone. 
Frances. — Serve in his stead 

And see me home. 
Hale. — A crown to pleasure's crown. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene 2.— A hall. 

Garland y Fairfield, Kirkwood, Foote, Bernice, Edith, and 
Members of Destiny League discovered. 

Member. — Why did Garland take the floor? no one 
heeds him. 

FooTE. — He always addresses himself; 'tis no matter. 
The politicians call him Old Prolixity. 

Member. — Look 3^ou, the pla3^ful Belmont has taken 
the floor. 

Foote. — He will keep it ; there 's no appeal from the 
Chair. 

154 



Member. — What 's that good for ? all is fate. This 
Belmont takes the floor like an Apache — for a scalp. 

FooTE. — But Garland takes the floor like Father Time 
— till doomsday. 

Member. — If it be to damn, he comes prepared. 

FooTE. — Sure, Kirkwood is going to damn some one — 
the hour sits so easy on him. Mark you, he will take 
nothing serious in the argument that his opponent shall 
not be taken serious. 

Kirkwood. — Ladies and Gentlemen of the I^eague, 
Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, in the fulness of his 
wisdom, said. Grass is where you get it : I say. Truth 
is where you find it. 

FooTE. — That 's well balanced. 

Kirkwood. — A John is not so young but his words 
should be digested, nor a Machiavel so old but his argu- 
ment should be resolved. There is a motion before the 
committee as to whether it is not wiser this league dis- 
continue its official organ ; a motion proposed by that 
honorable member, Mr. Garland. Ladies and Gentlemen 
of the league, any fool can be a martyr, and I will not be 
a martyr in reputation to this motion to discontinue our 
official organ, yet neither will I be like that blind man 
lost in a fog, who vilified the fog. 

Garland. — Mr. Chairman, I rise to a point of order. 

Fairfield. — Please state the point of order. 

Garland. — The speaker is wandering from his sub- 
ject. 

Fairfield. — Point not well taken: the greatest dis- 
tance from any point in argument is there where we 
approach it. 

155 



KiRKWOOD. — Ladies and Gentlemen of the league, 
there is a point in everj^ stick; the whittling 's the thing. 
Allow me to whittle. (^Laughter.') History is not the 
laughing philosopher that we should so lightly set aside 
the history of leagues without an official organ. The 
illustrious academy of Athens had no official organ: 
w^here is that classic league to-night ? what eye has seen 
its advertisement ? what ear has heard its gavel ? 

Member. — Do you mark Garland? 

FooTE. — He has found his blush. 

KiRKWOOD. — Each office has its mischief, and the 
editor of our official organ — the editor 's to blame — with 
whom it has still been, Me and the gods, and not that 
reverential. The gods and me, has abused his sacred 
trust, showing no more conscience in that exalted posi- 
tion than a certain other historic figure, I mean the Cock 
Lane ghost in the Psalms. {Laughter?) Why do you 
laugh ? are we gathered here to laugh while the stars of 
liberty are falling ! for what is our official organ but our 
liberty: are we gathered here to dream while calamity is 
awakening — while the sacred rights of public discussion 
are assailed ! for what privilege have we to public dis- 
cussion but the privilege of our official organ. Ladies 
and Gentlemen of the league, what is destiny without 
liberty! what is liberty without ink ! 

FooTE. — Printers' ink forever ! 

KiRKWOOD. — Gentlemen, remember v/e all are candi- 
dates for editor, and to him who can keep his mouth 
closed all ways shall lie open, even dinner ways. (^Laugh- 
ter.) 

FAIRFIEI.D. — Order, order: let the speaker proceed. 

156 



Edith. — A very informal speech, I think. 

KiRKWOOD. — Coroners and undertakers are human, so 
are editors : we must not confound principles with flesh; 
we must not confound the principles of our league with 
the flesh of our editor. Flesh is grass; principle is dawn: 
grass can be mowed down; who can bind the dawn ? 

Mkmbkr. — Bravo ! bravo ! 

KiRKWOOD. — Ladies and Gentlemen of the league, we 
shall always have the fools with us, and a fool and his 
pen is riding the neck of this league like the ' 'Old Man of 
the Sea", who was an editor's son. What grapes shall 
we crush to cast him off? what, but the rich cluster of 
our ballot. 

Member. — Mr. Chairman, I rise to a point of order. 

FAIRFIEI.D. — Please state the point of order. 

Member. — The speaker is dealing in personal abuse. 

FairfieIvD. — Point not well taken. 

KiRKWOOD. — Who can deal with abuse and not be per- 
sonal ? Does that member think the Elements of Euclid 
has disgraced this league ? Is that member so blind as 
to believe Archimede's screw is editing our official organ, 
that I should not be personal in speaking of abuse ? No, 
Ladies and Gentlemen of the league, let us be one with 
the politician, let us not believe all we say. ( Laughter. 

Fairfield. — Order, order: let the speaker proceed. 

FooTE. — All is fate. 

KiRKWOOD. — In the dark all men but ourselves are 
villains, and I have not yet so enlightened this subject but 
there may be present him who thinks I have base motives 
concealed in these flowers of speech. 

FooTE, — No, no. 

157 



Kirk WOOD. — The regard of my collegiate overcomes 
me: I pause to wipe a tear from my notes. Ladies and 
Gentlemen of the league, shall we discontinue our official 
organ that the editor, who is grass, has abused his trust? 
our official organ, without which our league must ever 
be as barren as a history of the American-Spanish war 
without Admiral Dewey, the Father of glories. 

FooTK. — Bravo; hear, hear ! 

KiRKWOOD. — Shall we be a cause without hands? a 
principle without an organ ? a truth without communion ? 
a prophecy without a trump ? a light without a throne ? 
Shall we lose our splendid pre-eminence for this slight 
default ? Shall Rome go down from her seven pleasant 
hills and dwell in the valleys? Shall the end be there 
where our love thought the beginning was ? 

Member. — The ballot, the ballot. 

FAIRFIEI.D. — Are j^ou ready for the ballot? 

Member. — Ay, ay. 

KiRKWOOD. — Now may eloquence be the father of 
good works. 

FAIRFIEI.D. — As many as are in favor of discontinuing 
our official organ will stand. [ Garlafid stands. 

FooTE. — The Fates win. 

FAIRFIEI.D. — The motion is lost : all is fate. 

Bernice. — {Aside to Kirkwood) Thanks, thanks, 
Kirk; you have saved my position: with the discontinu- 
ance of the official organ my occupation were gone. 

KiRKWOOD. — {Aside) But this is dear eloquence to me; 
I must pay the printer for this same official organ : I am 
the bank of my own eloquence. And, sure, I must ban- 

158 



quet the Chair for keeping me on the floor : a cold bottle 
and a hot bird for the Chair. 

Membkr. — I move this assembly adjourn till next 
Friday. 

FairfieIvD. — Meeting adjourned. 

{^Exeunt Garland^ Foote and Members. 

Why does Garland seek to discontinue our official 
organ ? This editorial was a mistake of the editor, and 
can easily be corrected. It does not shame us. 

KIRKWOOD. — I think he wishes to kill the league. 

Fairfield. — Why so? 

KiRKWOOD. — He may know I initiated him. O, it 
shames me that I did not beat him openly, but he is a 
pillar of Hercules beside me. What do you think of 
my eloquence ? 

Fairfield. — Go to the Senate, son. 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, there you say; the world doesn't 
know half of my versatility. Yes: I would make a rare 
orator; just enough misjudgment to concientiously abuse; 
enthusiasm to damn extempore; wit enough to corrupt my 
opponent's coming on and impeach his going off; Script- 
ure enough to bring the devil home to 'em; history 
enough to be dangerous; can give truth a holiday at a 
minute's notice; can make 'em think they are thinking 
with an epigram; miscellany enough to pass for learn- 
ing; humor to heap ridicule on my opponent, overcoming 
the man, not the question, for the public always con- 
founds the man and the question; and, in conclusion, 
leave 'em in the clouds riding some blazing figure, and 
there's my ballot home. 

Fairfield. — May I see you home. Miss Prescott? 

159 



Edith. — I thank you: j'ou may. 

KiRKWOOD. — Lead on, lead on. Bernice, let me whis- 
per a secret in your ear: this is a very sweet league, i' 
faith, but, dear heart, there is no destiny but woman. 

\Exeunt. 

Scejie J. — A drug store. 

Clerk, with newspaper, discovered. 

Clerk. — She hasn't thrown the vitriol j^et; we are 
about to lose a good advertisement. 

Enter Maurice. 

Colvin, w^hat can I do for you? 

Maurice. — I have a headache in the front and eyes, 
obscuring the sight. Have you medicine to cure that? 

Clerk. — Ay, here 's what wa'U mend that fault. {Gives 
Maurice medicine). Have you read the morning papers? 

Maurice. — No. Why? 

Clerk. — A whole scandal. I'm looking for a case of 
vitriol throwing in high life. 

Maurice. — How comes it? 

Clerk. — I'll tell you ; talk 's cheap. A fashionably 
dressed woman, heavil}^ veiled, stepped in last night and 
wanted to purchase some oil of vitriol. Now what, in 
the name of all that 's reasonable, does a w^oman want 
with vitriol if it be not to throw at a rival ? 

Maurice. — So ! 

Clerk. — Well, I told her it is against the law to sell 
vitriol — I'll not sell a woman vitriol — but I could sell her 
a good substitute for vitriol. Told her if she should spill 
a drop of this substitute on her hand, it would produce 

i6o 



all the effects of oil of vitriol, but without danger or pain; 
draw and discolor the skin ; ruin the hand for life. Be 
careful. 

Maurice. — Well ? 

ClKRK. — Why, man, she jumped at the stuff. Here 's 
a merciful vitriol thrower. 

Maurice). — You may be mistaken. 

Clkrk. — Mistaken ? I don't keep the article. lyook 
you, I charged her ten prices for the stuff and she paid it 
without demur — a woman ! There 's conviction. She 
wants that stuff to throw at some pretty face that 's play- 
ing fast and faster with her lover. 

Maurice. — And you are looking for the item ? 

CivKRK. — Tut, I know what side o* public opinion a 
man can laugh on. The stuff 's as harmless as salt ; it 's 
a volatile stain that will vanish in twenty hours with the 
toilet, but bad, bad till it fade. What a consummate ad- 
vertisement it will be if it 's in high life and the papers 
get it vitriol and I can buttonhole a reporter. The firm 
should cut ten per cent for the event. 

Maurice. — So. 

Clerk. — Foh ! I know what I know. Where's your 
headache now? All gone: I know 't. 

Maurice. — Beauty is frail. 

Clerk. — True: but here 's a wholesale catalogue of 
beauty creams: I'll cut 'em ten to forty per cent with the 
war tax: let 'em mend it. 

Maurice. — Bah ! [Ejt:iL 

Clerk. — I believe he thinks I'm mistaken about that 
woman. When I get the item I'll not say anything, but 
I'll send him a marked copy. 

i6i 



Scene 4. — A lawn before Belmont's house. 
Enter Frances, heavily veiled. 

Frances. — 

now I feel, whene'er I ope my lips, 

I'll pour contempt and scorn upon the world: 

Being contemptible I hate all things. 

Then beauty was all my boasted charity, 

That when my beauty's gone my pity dies 

And all my gentleness is rooted out: 

Then I was kind that I was ever fair; 

Not that my heart is gentle, but in my fairness 

1 pitied others till that pity born 
Of pride had grown to be a charity. 
Indifference is the charity of men 

And pride of women, I have heard it said ; 
And pride, I see, has been my charity; 
Pride and contempt. O I am stript indeed: 
My heart 's no better than gross flattery 
Which praised my beauty till I grew most kind 
Through fulsome satisfaction with myself 
And mere contempt for others. 

Enter Hale. 

Hale. — Miss Belmont, 

Is this veil a beauty mask ? 
Frances. — 'Tis naught, 'tis naught. 

Hale. — 

Then put it by for it becomes you not. 

I'll pluck it off. 
Frances. — No, no! 

162 



HAI.E. — In faith, I will. 

Frances. — You are uncivil, sir. 
HaIvE. — How now, offended? 

Frances. — You might divine as much. 
HAI.E. — You speak as grieved: 

How may I make amends ? 
Frances. — Go; leave me here. 

Hai,e. — 

Come, let me see your eyes; what 's sparkling there 

Of laughter or disdain. 
Frances. — I'm serious. 

lyCt that be registered with your beliefs. 

HAI.E. — 
Then in your dreams I have offended you: 
lyCt me be true in dreams. lyast night it was 
You laughed at me in dreams; your look was like 
Your absence and your presence in one brow 
Crowned with your sunny hair. 

Frances. — This was a dream. 

Hale. — 

Dreams paint you fair, but daylight paints you fairer. 

Frances. — 

If you have any brain to see I'm vexed, 

lycave me alone awhile. 
Hai,e. — My brain 's all heart. 

If I can find the reason why you're vexed 

I'll kill vexation though it be my love. 

Adieu: I am dismissed. 

iExit. 

163 



IPRANCES. — 

I know my heart must put your name away 

And no more must be heard of with my own. 

Then farewell, Philip; I am not myself; 

My face is as hideous to look upon 

As vitriol 's cruel; all loathsome and deformed : 

The deed is done that cannot be undone, 

And now I fear it was not wisely done 

For where there is no honor there 's no end : 

His evil mind may seek revenge for this 

That overleaps all fear. 

Enter Laura behind. 

Alas, alas, 

I would I had my beauty back again 

That now is lost forever. (^Turning around?) I^aura, 
is 't you? 

Why do you steal upon me thus ? 
I^AURA. — Here 's ado. 

You have not lost your beauty that you're veiled ? 

Is all transformed beneath ? 
Frances. — What do you mean ? 

I wear this veil i' the sun. 
I^AURA. — You can speak false 

As well as play coquette : I heard your speech 

Confessing your beauty lost. 
Frances. — I^eave me alone. 

lyAURA. — 

If tears are company, you're not alone. 
If grief is company, you're not alone. 
Your veil is wet o'er the eyes. 
164 



Frances. — It is not so, — 

I mean, not for that cause : I weep for you. 
lyAURA. — O sweet religious tears. 
Frances. — For shame, lyaura. 

IvAURA. — 

Now will you make a gentle housekeeper, 
For 'tis the occupation of the plain. 
No more a candle is your beauty's soul, 
But it lies deeper ; it is gentleness ; 
For you will make a virtue of homeliness. 
Your beauty now lies too deep for accident, 
'Tis moral ; beauty that the blind can see : 
While patience shall become a second nature. 
Write down these homilies within a book 
Sacred to housekeeping receipts. 

Frances. — You prate 

As wide as jealousy may err from truth : 
I suffer no detraction. 

I^AURA. — Speak direct. 

You suffer no detraction; you may add 

In height or weight, and ease your conscience so: 

But if I think your beauty suffers none 

Then my belief has made a falsehood here, 

For as you'd have another take your words 

Even so they're spoke. 

Frances. — I will not ope my lips. 

lyAURA. — 

Your silence will convict you, but your speech 
Will perjure you; and you are honorable. 
Well, 'tis the occupation of the plain. 

165 



Frances. — 

I cannot understand so narrow nature: 

My heart would smother were it cramped like yours. 

How can you be yourself and enjoy aught ? 

And yet the spider creeps not at itself 

But to itself seems liberal as the rose. 

IvAURA. — 

And so your beauty 's lost; 'tis strange, 'tis strange, 

'Tis passing strange: 

And yet 'tis lost : I am assured of that. 

Ah, Frances, do j^ou know how fair you were? 

But all is lost. 

Enter Maurice at a distaiice. 

lyook there where Maurice comes. 

What part of woman have you fed him on 

To root out faith and constancy in him? 

What but your beauty: but that 's gone from you: 

Then let him come and mock, himself most mocked. 

'Tis not he cares for you; you are his toy. \^Exit. 
Frances. — 

Let 's come to misery without delay, 

Speak face to face, 
Maurice. — Stay, do not lift that veil. 

Frances. — Why will you have me veiled ? 
Maurice. — Many thanks are due 

That I cannot see your face. 
Frances. — What do 3^ou mean ? 

Maurice. — 

I was a soldier once: I am not now; 

I have my dishonorable discharge. 

i66 



Francks.— 'Tis so. 

Maurick. — 
And once I thought myself a gentleman, 
But that 's gone too. 
Frances.— 'Twill find your honor out 

And keep it company, united still. 
Maurick. — 
Yet, since the evil 's not beyond recall, 
I am content. 
Francejs.— You mean— 

Mauric:^. — I mean you 're free. 

I here release you of this compulsory marriage. 
Frances.- That ! that! 

Maurice.— I 've wrestled and have overcome. 

Enjoin what it shall please you for this deed 
And you shall find me prompt. 
Frances.— But I am free ? 

Maurice.— I 've said. 
Frances.— O me ! you have repented this? 

Why do you speak so late ? 
Maurice.— It is my best. 

Yet naught is past recall but your distress. 
Frances.— O blind, bUnd, bUnd ! 
Maurice.— Stay, do not lift your veil. 

There is a temptor there ; a word or two 
Till it is put away. 

Frances.— I'm dumb : speak on. 

Maurice.— Where is your father? 
Frances.— He is not at home, 

Nor will be for two days. 

167 



Maurice:.— Then tell him this : 

That Colvin whom he shot by accident 
Recovered of that wound ; he did not die, — 
Your father was mistaken when he fled, — 
And that same Colvin 's my uncle. At a word, 
I bring him before your father in his home 
To sweep aside the rancor of these years 
And greet your father as his dearest friend. 

Francks. — Justice is come again. 

Maurice. — 'Tis even so. 

If you will say you pardon me this deed, 
Why, it were kindly said. 

Frances.— I'll lift my veil. 

Maurice. — I have disarmed myself; 'tis all alike. 

Frances. — 

You 're right, you 're right: I will not lift my veil. 
Why should I so ? 

Maurice. — But you will pardon me? 

Frances. — Pardon you? no. 

Maurice. — Why, then, 'tis even so. 

Frances. — Stay; I do pardon you; 'tis all alike. 

Maurice. — 

I thank you, I thank you. 

I might have numbered you amongst my faiths ; 

I choose to number you amongst my doubts. 
Frances. — 

But for this pardon there is yet one work : 

lyaura believes that I have injured her 

By selfishly estranging you from her : 

She may have overheard some part of this 

i68 



And speak as from abuse and circumstance. 
Go tell her that I still was innocent, 
And deal with my poor friend as honorably 
As remorse may move you. 
Maurice. — I will do so. {^Exit. 

Frances. — 

My father freed ; and part is due to me, 

Which is some comfort : and I too am freed : 

My friend recalled whom I would cherish still, 

Put to distraction by deep jealousy: 

And half of sorrow an experience. 

But O ! I am disfigured till the end, 

And now must stand apart and look on youth 

Who might have played the sweetest part therein. 

O had I known of this but yesterday 

All night I had stayed awake to paint this day 

The consummation of my maiden hopes, 

This day which issues in the worser dream. 

Ah, what a waste of spirit 's human life. {Exit. 

Scene 5. — Beside Belmont's house. 
Enter Kirkwood and Lambert. 

KiRKWooD. — Now, I^ambert, remember "all the world 
loves a lover ", and love has no other name. See, I have 
set up a ladder to the window of your lady love, and 
when I tell you to mount, mount. 

Lambert. — But not till then. 

Kirkwood. — Swear by your honor that when you 
elope you will not play this trusting L,ucretia false. 

169 



Lambert. — What, have I not an authentic marriage 
license in my pocket? 

KiRKwooD. — And the ring? 

Lambkrt. — Likewise the ring. 

KiRKWOOD. — Good : let your faith reach around the 
ring and meet in a glorious marriage knot. But can you 
speak the sentiments without halting in the very presence 
of Lucretia? 

Lambert. — I can speak anything in ten tongues when 
she speaks of love in one : I 'm all fire. 

KiRKWOOD. — With the warp of your love I have min- 
gled the woof of my own. But you must not halt in 
these speeches; she is romantic to her readings. 

Lambert. — I bear wings, not crutches, in love. 

KiRKWOOD. — You're flint o' gold to-night. 

Lambert. — 

Lo, Dian, on yon silver crescent mount. 
Has lit sweet Even to her orient chambers, 
And Night— 

But I say, Kirk, there is no mount ; 
only the moon behind your stable tower. 

KiRKWOOD. — Let love be the scenery, the painting and 
the poem. In your lady's eye are Tempe and Arcady; 
there is the day-spring and there the twilight. It was 
Mohammed who went to the mount when the mount 
would not come to Mohammed, but the lover talks on. 

Lambert. — Shall I throw this pebble against Lucre- 
tia's window? 

KiRKWOOD. — What, will you wake your lady love 
from dreams of you with a base pebble, a pebble per- 
chance that little cunning, homely Ethiopian wench has 

170 



tread upon ? No, take these : I have de-stoned my cabi- 
net of specimens, black diamond and white chalcedony, 
smoky topaz and opal, obsidian and moonstone, jet and 
pearl. Take these and cast them at the window of 
Lucretia. What if they are lost i' the morning, did they 
not serve i' the night? 

Lambert. — ^Jove, all black and white : give me 'em. 

]^Receives the stones from Kirkwood and 
casts them against balcony window. 

Kirkwood. — There was a Hero and a Leander once, 
a Laura and a Petrarch ; but they are bright exhalations 
fallen into the dawn ; they are eclipsed by Lambert and 
Lucretia. There are two new chords in the lyre of 
Venus, and their clear divinity shall never be mute. 
Who henceforth would wake the hymn of love must 
strike these two master chords. Ha, you are food for 
poets. 

Enter Lucretia above on balcony, veiled in white and partly 
screened from below by vines and trellis. 

She comes ! 

Lambert. — She comes ! 

Lo, Dian, on yon silver crescent mount. 
Has lit sweet Even to her orient chambers, 
And Night, Night regal, comes midst falling dew 
And breathes the Venus on the upland hill. 
O, mine, enamoured, come out in the night; 
Beauty was made for night, such night as this, — 
Heaven is fine and free of idle rack 
And Summer is enamoured of the dusk : 
171 



Then come thou out, beloved as thou art ; 
Come o'er the dews, my Queen, come o'er to me 
With kisses thick as evening's starry count. 

KiRKWooD. — Good, good. 

Lambert. — I think so: good accent; sound discretion. 

LUCRETIA. — 

O spent 's the arrow, bent the golden bow ; 
And I am gentle Love's fond prisoner : 
Upon my cheeks two evening roses blow, 
Still watered by my happy cadent tears. 

Lambert. — ^Jove, now will I devour roses. 

KiRKWOOD. — A rose is a lover's grape, and here 's a 
whole vineyard. 

Lambert. — I'll have her. 

KiRKWOOD. — You may ; that little god. Love, has 
pierced her to the white. 

Lambert. — 

Since when upon a golden eagle's wing 
Love hung o'er hymned Olympus like a star 
And sailed upon that winged argosy 
Over a golden bar of melody 
To dales of Tempe where Psyche sojourned, 
Never has Love rejoiced to such a pitch 
As he rejoices in this summer night. 

KiRKWOOD. — Never, man. 

Lambert. — Never. 

LUCRETIA. — 

O bind not Love, or he will grasp his bow 
And make such discord with the golden string 
That morning's budding dew may never blow. 
The rose will die and birds shall cease to sing. 

172 



Lambe^rT. — What do you call 'em, album verses ? 

KiRKWOOD. — O come away — 

Lambert. — 

O come away, my Love, to summer dales ; 

The bee shall get his honey from thy lips 

To feed another race of woodland gods : 

The butterfly shall take thee for the rose 

Or for the lily or the golden rod. 

And bring his love to circle 'round thy eyes : 

The doe shall share with thee her crystal well 

As with some gentle spirit of the vale : 

The buds will blow when thou shall sing of May: 

The Hours shall come down around thy feet 

And dance unto the music in thy heart. 

KiRKWOOD. — Courage; we are doing famously. 

Lambert. — Famously is not the word — admirably. 

KiRKWOOD. — Come, come; don't split hairs i' the dark. 

LUCRETIA. — 

Thou hast troubled deep my clear Pierian spring, 
A fountain of your Loves 'tis issuing; 
And Plato's bird is amorous with a name 
That Plato banished with its load of shame. 

KiRKWOOD. — She 's as wise as she is beautiful. 

Lambert. — Will she sing to me ? 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, you must ask her. (A dog howls.) 
Plague take that cur of unutterable woe. O, Love, the 
nightingale — 

Lambert. — 

O, Love, the nightingale has closed his song. 
And bends in evening for the echoes sweet: 

173 



Sing, and he shall mistake thy voice for his, 
Thrown back from waters where bright Venus sleeps. 

LUCRKTIA. — 

Ah, Love, I am a tender song to-night. 
Stirred by sweet yearnings for my Love's delight. 

(Si7igs) 
O there 's a dulcet blackbird thrilling, 

And thrilling but for thee: 
O there 's a darkling blackbird rilling 
In golden ecstasy. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, 
The world is ours 
And love is ours, 
And dews are at our feet. 

O there 's a black rose midst the cream ones, 

That 's blowing but for thee: 
O there 's a waked rose midst the dream ones, 
That Love shall soon set free. 
Sweet, sweet, sweet. 
The world is ours 
And love is ours, 
And dews are at our feet. 

Lambert. — Ah, it is to love. 

KiRKWOOD. — Ah, it is to love and be loved. 

Lambert. — But, Kirk, what makes her voice so 
mellow ? 

KiRKWOOD. — 'Tis love. 

Lambert. — I sometimes think I have heard her voice 
before, I mean before I met her ; yet I cannot place it. 
Jove, where have I heard her voice before ? 

174 



KiRKWOOD. — Does her voice haunt you as from eter- 
nity ? as from some anterior existence ? as from some 
other life you seem to have lived ? 

Lambert. — It 's something that way; far off; spiritual. 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, then, she 's your affinity, and in 
eternity, that is in some anterior existence, you have 
heard her voice, perhaps rilling this self same song. 
This is too heavy to discuss at present, on eggs, as it 
were, but doubt not she is Psyche, your Soul. Mount. 

lyAMBKRT. — ^Jove, the hour is come ! 

KiRKWOOD. — Is the lover ready ? 

Lambkrt. — Ready. 

KiRKWOOD. — Mount, and remember ** faint heart never 
won fair lady." {Lambert mounts to the balco?iy.) Now 
let the stars reel. Soft, I will throw down the ladder ; 
they might actually elope. {Throws down the ladder,) 
Blessings on my heart. 

lyAMBKRT. — Have I caught you. Psyche, my Soul ? 

lyUCRKTiA. — La, you may buss me now. 

KiRKWOOD. — La, she 's as warm as a 'possum. 

Lambkrt. — What makes your voice so mellow. Love ? 

LucRKTiA. — 'Tis joy. 

Lambert. — What makes your lips so thick, Love ? 

LuCRETiA. — O 'tis from kissing your picture every 
hour I live. 

Lambert. — Your cheek is rough. Love. What 'sthis? 
a veil ! and these ? gloves ! Come to the light and let me 
see your face. A veil ! 

LucRETiA. — O love is blind : stay here i' the dark. 

Lambert. — No, let me see your face ; the hair o' gold, 
the violet eyes. O come away. 

175 



lyUCRETiA. — {Lmigkmg.) Then kiss me twenty times 
i' the dark. 

lyAMBERT. — A hundred. {Kisses her.) Now come to 
the light : from kisses to light, from light to kisses. 

I^UCRKTIA. — I^a, I am "nothing loath." 

IvAMBKRT. — I am passionately, madly, in love with 
you. Jove, I will devour those roses in your cheeks. 

I^UCRETIA. — They are white roses. 

Lambkrt, — White roses ! come to the light, come to 
the light ; let me see 'em. 

[ They come from behind trellis, etc. 

I^UCRKTIA. — I^ove is blind. 

lyAMBKRT. — Ay, I^ove is blind. 

KiRKWOOD. — O, lyord, what if he 's color blind. 

lyAMBERT. — {Takiiig off L2icretia' s veil.) Spiders and 
toads, it is a negro wench ! 

LuCRKTiA. — I am no wench ; I am a lady, sir : this 
color {touching her cheek) ^ I assure you, is but skin deep; 
besides Cleopatra was dark. 

lyAMBKRT. — Are you Lucretia Floyd, with whom I 'm 
in love ? 

I^UCRKTiA. — I 'm Lucretia Floyd, me honey; that 
pearl of Ind, that well of love. {Throwing her arms 
about Lambert's neck.) I^a, how romantic ! 

Lambert. — Now I see how I 'm abused; now I see it 
all. I 'm no ass, I 'm no ass. I^et me be gone ; let go 
my neck, you soot -hen, you soot-hen. 

Lucretia. — I 'm no soot-hen ; I 'm a cake-walk belle. 

lyAMBERT. — O hell! 

176 



lyUCRKTiA. — They told me love is blind! 
lyAMBERT. — Ugh ! 

I/UCRETiA. — Is our romance ended? 
lyAMBKRT. — Ugh! 

I/UCRETIA. — Then, take that {slapping Lambert), you 
gross, unromantic thing. I am too fair of face for you. 

\_Exit. 

lyAMBERT. — Damn, damn, damn, damn! 
KIRKWOOD. — O, lyambert, I^ambert, what joy, what 
bliss, what rapture, if the lady had just been Chinese. 

lExit. 

lyAMBKRT. — Where 's that ladder? fallen down ! I must 

jump. I wish he was beneath. {Leaps from balcony.) 

My pictures! letters! Jezebel! I have set a price on my 

head and the prince of fools has bought me. I will go 

hunt Andree. 

lExit. 




177 



ACT V. 

Scene i. — A room in Belmont's house. 
Enter Frances^ heavily veiled. 

Frances. — 

Ivong since I read how that a lady fair 

First saw her image in her daughter's face, 

The only glass the Spirit could not enchant; 

But I shall never see my image more, 

That uncorrupted image of myself; 

Nor have I heart to look upon what 's marred: 

Once did I look, most swooning at the sight. 

And rather than look on this brow deformed 

Or have another mark what ruin 's here, 

I shall go veiled. Who calls it cowardice, 

lyCt her drink of this cup of bitterness 

Of which there is no bottom ; let her drink 

And learn what beauty is when it is lost. 

Yet if I cannot be a beauty veiled, 

I'll strive to be a heart behind a veil. lExit. 

Scene 2, — A pathway. 

Enter Maurice and Laura. 
Maurick. — 

Gather her innocence from these few words 

Which come so tardily. Her fault was mine. 

Your name was very near to tears with her 

When coupled with misjudgment : go to her, 

178 



She is your friend and this is your mistake, 
Which known, your rancorous words are all forgot. 
I have o'erstept my honor in so far — 
Which I may not explain nor never will — 
That I must lose your love. 
Laura. — What have you done ? 

Maurice. — 

I have done naught but have attempted much 
That is not sweet for me to think upon. 
Let it go by : only the deed 's not mine 
But the temptation. 

Laura. — I'm as fair as she, 

And can converse as reasonably as she ; 
Esteemed as much by those who know us well : 
And though she 's witty she abuses that ; 
A virtue more for evil than for good ; 
Quite out of concord with that cadence sweet 
When virtue waits on virtue, none in extreme 
Passioned from merit to default. 

Maurice. — Well said : 

But let 't go by. 

Laura. — O, I can speak right on, 

And show that Frances Belmont has her faults 
Which need a critic who has eye and brain. 
Besides she 's a coquette and I doubt not 
That you did see some lightness in her 'havior 
Which led to this, for men are men we know. 
Fie ! she shall not estrange your heart from mine : 
I love you better for this slight trespass. 
Come, never think of this ; Maurice, forget. 

179 



Maurice. — No, you misjudge her. But j-ou'll be her 
friend ? 

IvAURA. — 

There 's time for that. Enough of this to-day. 
Come, we shall spend the evening at a play. \Exeiint. 

Scene j. — Grounds before Garland's house. 
Enter Kirkwood and Bern ice. 

KiRKWOOD. — O, Bernice, do 3'ou know the true 
Promethean fire ascends to heaven and not descends 
from heaven ? and that 5'our love has taught me this ? 

Bernice. — From the same book, Kirk, is it not pos- 
sible we have learned the same lesson ? 

KiRKWOOD. — Let me not complain, Bernice ; but your 
love is like a white rose i' a church and blows too near 
the sacrament. 

Bernice. — Can love be too near the angels? 

KiRKWOOD. — Ah, Bernice, I know m3^self, and — I am 
grieved to say — there is little of the angel in that knowl- 
edge; though, as the world goes, I can turn to satisfaction 
and content in myself on both hands. No; I keep no 
record of my sins but my enemies ; no remembrance of 
my virtues but my friends ; and I cannot show you the 
book of my deeds, unless you can find that book in mj^ 
friends, who exceed my enemies. But, dear heart, when 
I forget the angels believe I am scheming some kindness 
for this lesser breed. 

Bernice. — I know you are a noble hearted gentleman. 

KiRKWOOD. — Why, there 3'ou say: I would have said 

180 



the same myself had not modesty forbid. Add now the 
adage — How much dearer is the husband than the lover. 

Bernice. — I have learned the adage differently, Kirk. 

KiRKWOOD. — Bernice, I will allow you exactly an hour 
to dress for visiting : bring all your art to bear on your 
toilet and, dear heart, wear something white at the throat. 

Bernice. — Where will you have me go ? 

KiRKWOOD. — I will tell you : my father will return 
home exactly at four o'clock; Frances has golden news 
for him which, I doubt not, will make his heart mellow: 
she will break this news at a quarter past four : five 
minutes after the quarter you and I will present ourselves 
before that brave old gentleman — nay, nay, do not deny 
me, Bernice; I saw his blessings in 's eyes. 

Bernice. — I will not deny you, Kirk. 

KiRKWOOD. — Thanks, thanks. Why, what a thing 
this is I must be hedged in with parental approval. Let 
me not think on 't ; I 'm bitter at times. Will you go in, 
sweet? meanwhile I will walk up and down here and, 
while I smoke, endeavour to grasp a new virtue. 

Bernice. — An hour is my privilege? 

KiRKWOOD. — What, an hour for a toilet, an hour? then 
you are of the roses, red. {^Exit Berriice.) Time was I 
was a very dependent 3^oung fellow ; but that was before 
my aunt died: time was, I heard the pealing of the 
spheres more often than the ringing of golden dollars ; 
but that was before my aunt died : time was, I had so run 
in debt my creditors would not trust me with this same 
Spanish deficit; but that too was before my aunt died. 
By this good day, I was still beholden to this lady, yet 

i8i 



without the knowledge. But are we not all most beholden 
where we least conceive? There is Garland, for instance; 
is he not under infinite obligation to me for that drubbing 
I gave him? and he conceives it was Fairfield — perhaps. 
Well, to God be the praise and to men the light. \^Exit. 

Scene 4. — Parlors in Belmont's house. 
Enter Hale and Frances, heavily veiled. 

HAI.B. — 

Will nothing move you to undo this veil 

That I may mark the workings of your face 

And know when scorn is scorn, when jest is jest, 

And gather some faint clue to irony. 

I cannot find your humor in your voice 

But it will stand inverted in your face. 
Frances. — 

If you cannot distinguish by my words 

How I have spoken, think not in my face 

To find it out. 
Halk. — Your face is the better part 

Of conversation ; poetry of speech. 

I rather have one accent from your eyes 

Than twenty from your tongue. 
Frances. — Is my voice harsh, 

Jarring upon the ear? then what remains 

When beauty and when melody are lost? 
Hale. — 

Neither is lost, yet neither can be found. 

Your face I have not seen for forty hours — 
182 



Frances. — 

Nor have I seen my face for forty hours. 

Then how may you complain ? 
Hai,B. — Your voice, to me, 

Is like a throstle singing in the Spring, 

But whose locality cannot be found, 

Till that sweet voice without a body to 't 

Becomes a pain. 
Frances. — O much remains to woman 

When a sweet voice remains. 

HAI.K. — What veil is this ? 

Of what religion or fanaticism ? 

Or is it but your humor showing thus ? 

Or is there reason in 't ? 
Frances. — Consider it : 

Why should I wear this veil ; to shield my face 

From the rude sun ? or that I grow more pale ? 

Or make this fairness dear by rarity ? 

Or do you think 'tis humor showing thus ? 

Or is ' t religion or fanaticism ? 

Or have I lost my beauty in a dream ? 

Or is there reason ? 
Hale. — There is reason, sure. 

If 'tis but lack of reason ; reason still 

Of strong prevailment. 
Frances. — You grow bitter, sir. 

But there is reason here ; yet what it is 

I will not say, but leave it to your wit 

To search and know, and when the truth is found 

I'll speak at large. 

183 



Hai,k. — It is fanaticism 

To veil that glory and that touch divine 
That has no name below but " maidenhood," 
And none of this commingles with your blood : 
Nor can I think you wear it 'gainst the sun : 
Nor yet to pale the lily on your brow : 
To make your beauty rarer, there 's no need : 
That 'tis your humor is most probable : 
And last, that you have lost your beauty — no, 
It cannot be. 

Frances. — Is beauty invulnerable 

That there 's no reason in this last and worst, — 
Beauty that 's but skin deep ? 

Halk. — Believe it not. 

The contour of your face denies the text, 
Your eyes call to your hair to witness that, 
Your hair laughs in the light. 

France:s. — There are some men 

Who admire deformity in womankind ; 
And men of sensibility oft do so : 
Perchance you would admire a violet eye 
Within a brow deformed ? 

HaIvK. — If the eyes were yours. 

Frances. — Yea, if the eyes were mine. 

Hale. — Why, then, I would. 

Frances. — And would you so? 

Hai^e. — {Aside) Her drift is evident ; 

She would plummet me by swearing beauty lost. 
The more she swears that she is hideous 
The more I'll swear my love. 

184 



Franci^S. — Why do you pause ? 

HaIvK. — 

That you were beautiful the world well knows, 

That you are beautiful the world believes ; 

And yet — 
Frances.— Ay, there 's the doubt. 

HAI.K. — Is 't possible ? 

Frances. — What possible ? 
Hai^K. — I'll not believe 'tis so. 

Frances. — Believe what? 
Hale. — That this divinity is marred 

Even at its consummation ; that all 's marred 

Which was so wonderfully made. 
Frances. — 'T is even so. 

Hale. — Ha ! 
Frances. — 

O all ' s undone ! Speak not so graciously : 

You never spoke so sweetly, but t^he sweet 

Is come when it is but a mockery. 

Ask me no more. 
Hale. — Alas, dear lady, alas ! 

Frances. — 

You have a suit with me: now I am freed 

To answer whether I will be your wife 

Or no. 
Hale. — You 're free, sweet Frances, to reply? 

Frances. — Yea, I am free. 
Hale. — What answer shall I have ? 

Frances. — 

If I were what I have been it were, Yes ; 

Since I am what I am it must be. No. 

185 



Hale. — 

If you were what you have been it were, Yes; 

Then she who is my love shall be my bride, 

And she who is my bride shall be my wife, 

And she who is my wife shall be my all. 

Upon this veil I seal my perfect faith: 

All 's mine beneath. 
Frances. — You know not what you do, 

Not knowing, are absolved. 
Hale. — My love 's my knowledge. 

And all the knowledge I would have. 
Frances. — No, no. 

By accident — for call it accident — 

My face is as hideous to look upon 

As oil of vitriol 's cruel. 
Hale.— O pitiful! 

Sweet Frances, let me sympathize more near, 

As husband sympathizes with a wife. 
Frances. — 

Too much I love you ever to unveil. 

Think on me as you saw me at the dance. 

And let us say "farewell"; yet not "farewell", 

But "farewell love". My very noble friend. 

Your hand to that. 
Hale. — Why, look, I am misjudged 

Even when misjudgment touches honor's height 

By one above all others I looked to 

For hope of perfect judgment. What is this ! 

Your beauty lost and I must say ''farewell" : 

Do husbands say * * farewell ' ' to aging wives ? 

To those who meet with some cruel accident ? 

i86 



No, sorrow sees another face beneath 

lyike which the angels see ; nor grief is grief 

And sorrow 's but a name when it is kin 

To love and spirit. Now out of hand, sweet Frances, 

I take you for my wife. 

Francks. — You have not seen. 

Hai,k. — Unveil. 

Frances. — Never ! I rather lose your love. 

Hai,e. — Yet I will take you so. 

Frances. — Are you sincere ? 

HAI.E. — I loathe a trifling mood in serious state. 

Frances. — 

How shall I act ? O this confesses me 
If nothing else. I know not what to say : 

I cannot forget, yet cannot wrong. 
And I have not the courage to unveil. 
Yet do you love me for my character 
And not for my face ? 

Hai,e. — {Aside) Were this not Frances, why, 
I'd 'gin to doubt that she was acting here ; 
But this is she : I'm not so credulous 
As she believes. Sweet Frances, for them both, 
Both for your face and for your character, 
As one esteems twin jewels. 

Frances. — O no, no, no ! 

Hai,e. — 

What if one jewel 's lost, the other 's mine. 

1 fixed my hope upon a double jewel. 
Whereas one was inestimable : then let one go ; 
I shall not cast the other after it 

But seize upon the most I can enjoy. 
187 



I seem to find you there where half is lost ; 
Your character more lovely now appears 
In standing by itself; 'twas cheated still. 
Sweet bride of character, intemporal love, 
O gentle lady, in whom still appears 
An outward image of an inward face 
Whose very smiles are deeds of gentleness, 
Whose light is not uncertain with the years ; 
Which ever grows from fair to dearer fair 
As grows the rose unto the poets' praise, 
O, Frances, now my love is perfected 
Which freely throws away the temporal part 
And seizes on the part intemporal. 
Nor think hypocrisy is uttered thus. 
But that your character has found its due 
By standing thus apart. Give me your hands ; 
I'll take you as you are. 

Frances. — Can you love that? {Unveiling.) 

HAI.E. — Glorious ! 

Frances. — O shame ! {Hides her face in her 

hands.) 

Hai^e. — How now ; lift up your face. 

Alas, Frances, alas ! 

Frances. — I do absolve you, Philip. 

Hale. — 

In faith, you shall not : I love you all the more 
In very pity. Now I have your hands ; 
You cannot hide your face. O this would break 
A heart of stone. 

Frances. — You look on me 

And speak of love ? 

i88 



HaIvK. — Come, let tliat witness me. {^kissing 

her.) 
Frances. — Your love exceeds all thought. 
Hai^k. — You'll be my wife? 

Frances. — 

If, seeing, you will take me for your wife 

I'll be your wife. 'Tis little that I bring 

But I will teach 't to grow. 
Hai,e. — Sweet Frances, no ; 

You come like Summer when all buds are blown. 

Nor art can teach another shoot to bud. 

Ah, Frances, do you know how fair you are? 
Frances. — O let me go : you shall not mock at me. 

My veil. 
Hai^E. — lyook here. {Leads Frances before a 

mirror.) 
Frances. — Ah ! 

Hai,e. — Get you from me : 

What mean you by thus marrying fjrom your art ? 

Go on the stage ; within your veins there runs 

Dramatic blood right royal. 
Frances. — What does 't mean ? 

Hai,e. — A mirror cannot flatter, only deceive. 
Frances. — 

Then it is no such thing ; I was deceived ; 

My face is not disfigured for my life ; 

'Tis as it was before the — accident. 
HaIvE. — Ay, play a sixth act out. 
Frances. — Ah, Philip, Philip ! 

This is the sweetest hour of my life : 

I have dreamed out the dream and now awake 

To know reverseless evil was a dream. 
189 



Halk. — 

Well played. Go, take the measure of a stage 

And learn how wide your coming honors are. 
Frances. — (Laughuig) Philip, I know you now. 
HAI.K. — What, do you so? 

Frances. — 

Thinking my face deformed, you yet were steadfast. 

'T is worth it all. 
HAiyE. — This was your method, then, — 

You vowed your beauty lost to plummet me? 
Frances. — I will not answer that: only, I know. 
Hale. — 

Why, what a work of credulity is love ! 

Yet for all that I guessed you played this part 

And spoke out of that guess. 
Frances. — What, did you so? 

You thought I was deceiving you in this ? 
Hale. — Ay. 
Frances. — Then this is not constancy in you ; 

You would have scorned me had this thing been true! 

You would have scorned me were my beauty lost ! 
Hale. — I surely should have. 
Frances. — Oh, I know you now 

As God before me knew you. Go your way. 
Hale. — 

I cannot win your love by so gross cheat 

Or else I had been silent on my guess. 

Why, no, if it were so I'd none of you — 

A homely wife 's a husband's heaviness. 

I cannot part your beauty from your grace 

And take you for your grace, though, I confess, 

190 



Should any accident destroy your grace 

I'd take you for your beauty : even so. 

And yet, sweet Frances, had this thing been true, 

I might have acted even as I did : 

I do not know, I am not brought to test. 
Frances. — Ah, well, let 't be ; let us be human, Philip. 
Hale. — Frances, '' the human. ' ' 
Frances. — With her ''droppings of warm tears". 

I do forgive you, Philip, for that mind ; 

It is the very pattern of my own ; 

I never could endure an ugly face 

In woman, nor can I endure it now. 

Find me a new praise for beauty ; * tis your charge. 
Hale. — I make it mine. 
Frances. — O that the gentle world 

Had but one tongue and that was given o'er 

To beauty's praise. Look out the window, sir : 

My father comes ; go, send him in to me. 

And, if you have regard for my contempt. 

Tarry five minutes hence. 
Hale. — Five seconds? well. [EjiriL 

Frances. — 

I'll send a jeweled scarf to that drug clerk 

Who sold me some weak stain in substitute 

For oil of vitriol — though 'twas his mistake — 

And pull down blessings on his decent top. 

And I'll be woman, I'll be human, I; 

I will not see a lesson in my grief 

Nor will I be a heart behind a veil. 

[Placing- herself before a mirror. 
191 



I' 11 make my neighbors envious as of yore 
With this same beauty which I thought was lost. 
Sure, I must have a care ; I grow too good : 
Yet one more kindness to my brother Kirk 
And then, in truth, I'll do some naughty trick 
In fear I grow too good, and therein proud, 
Which chokes the very source of charity. 

[^Quitting the mirror. 

I 'm certain Philip thought I spoke the truth 
Until I unveiled to him, then, like a man. 
He turned it off to hide his sentiment. 
Yes, he would love me though I were not fair, 
But being fair, why, he will love me more. 

Enter Belmont. 

What time is 't, father? 
Bejlmont. — A little after four. 
Frances. — 

'Twill serve. I have some golden news for you : 

One favor ere I speak. 
Belmont. — What shall it be? 
Frances. — 

Withhold not your approval from my Kirk ; 

It is an honorable marriage which he seeks. 

Dear father, am I not your favorite, I ? 

Then for my sake grant me this sister kind, 

I mean sweet Bernice. O, be sure, you will. 
Belmont. — 

Come, come, I have no favorite in my house. 

But what 's the news? 

192 



Frances. — This lightless history 

Must be re-written by a wiser pen 

And Providence let in : that Colvin, sir, 

Whom you still think was killed by accident — 

He did not die. 
BkIvMONT. — Not die ! impossible ! 

You've seen the brother. 
Francks. — I have seen them both. 

Believe it, for you must by evidence. 

lyook, look ! 'tis he without the window there; 

He comes, he comes ! 
BKI.MONT. — If this be true ! 

Francks. — 'Tis true. 

Belmont. — 

I'll never reach the bottom of this cup 

Your hands hold up to me. Who told you this ? 
Frances. — His nephew, Lieutenant Colvin. 
BKI.MONT. — My thanks to him. 

Frances. — Ay, give to him his due. 

Enter Colvin. 

C01.VIN.— Robert, Robert, 

What have old men to do with bitterness; 
Give me your hand : the fault was wholly mine. 

BE1.MONT. — Richard, is 't you? 

C01.VIN. — You see the scar; look here. 

This never was a badge of bitterness 
But was a book wherein I read our love. 
Your silence has become your only sin. 

BEiyMONT. — I am dumfounded. 

193 



CoLViN. — I have lived this o'er. 

This is your daughter? 
Bklmont. — This my daughter Frances, 

Who tells me that you live. 

Re-enter Hale. 

This is my friend 
Philip Hale. 
C01.VIN. — I 've known the Captain these two 5^ears. 

Enter Kirkwood and Bernice. 

And this, I'll swear, is 3'our son. 
BeIvMONT. — My only son. 

CoLViN. — What 's this, another daughter in the home ? 
Bklmont. — 

No, this is not my child ; but she shall be 

If you will give her to my son. 
CoLViN. — ( To Bernice) Sweet lady, 

lyCt me give you awaj^ 
Bkrnicb. — I thank you, sir. 

CoLViN. — ( To Kirkwood) Have her of me, young man? 
Kirkwood. — Sir, she is mine : 

But now I have her twice. 
CoLViN. — {^To Belmont) Do you hear this? 

He has her twice. 
Bklmont. — His father makes one more. 

So now, sweet daughter, 'tis a triple bond. 

All happiness go along ! 

(yTo Colvin.) lyCt's take these gray beards to the 

And leave youth in the parlor. [library 

Colvin. — Even so. 

[Exeunt Belmont and Colvin. 

194 



Francks. — Dear Bernice, you shall be my sister now. 

I've known it these two years. 
Hai,k. — Kirk, by this same grace, 

You are my brother. 
KiRKWooD. — Ha! so I've known two years. 
Frances. — 

And may I ask how you have been so wise? 

KiRKWOOD. — 

I^et be, we 're kin; let 's not approve that bond 
By discord. I'm right glad you 've cast that veil ; 
I'd not endured it longer. 
Frances . — Would you not ? 

Come hither, Bernice ; stand before this glass. 

[^She places Bernice before the mirror, 
then stands beside her. 

Pray, gentlemen, which is the fairest bride? 

{^Curtain. 




195 




HARRIET KENYON, 




197 



HARRIBT KEN YON 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Kenyon 

Spencer 

John, brother to Spencer 

Brewster, a Physician 

Ci<AUDiuS, son to Spencer 

Burke 

Drake 

Edmund, son to Mrs. Hartland . 

Curtis 

Todd 

Livingstone 

BuRRiiviy, a Reporter 

Another Reporter 

A Critic of Letters 

Two Poets 



Mrs. Kenyon, wife to Kenyon 

Mrs. Hartland, sister to Mrs. Kenyon 

Harriet, daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon. 

Venetia, daughter to Spencer 

IDII.IA, daughter to Mrs. Hartland 

Rose, daughter to Livingstone .... 

A Matron, friend to Venetia 

A Hostess 

Nurse to Rose 



Several Literary Men and Women, Officers, 
Maids, a Child, &c. 



Scene—SAN FRANCISCO. 
198 



HARRIET KENYON, 

A TRAGI -COMEDY. 



ACT I. 

Scene i. — Parlors in Kenyon's house. 

Enter Kenyo7i and Brewster. 

Kenyon. — 

Now, sir, since duty springs with prophecy, 
Advise me how to deal with Harriet ; 
This heavy transformation must presage 
Some sickness of the body or the mind. 

Brkwster. — 

'Tis true your daughter 's changed, yet with this 

change. 
No bodily distemper goes along ; 
So, happily, you need not look beyond 
The difference of deed and temperament. 
Kknyon. — lyooking no further, what of looking so far? 

199 



Brkwster. — 

She seems indifferent to life, yet cleaves 

To no particular peculiar thought ; 

Nor her affection 's in another world ; 

Foregone society without hate or malice ; 

In dut}^ sees no soul ; and blessed is 

Neither to wake nor sleep. 
Kknyon. — There is a time 

Her natural self looks out to be addressed 

And to address : that time is when she writes. 

In literature she finds a kind of joy 

That ministers to her inverted mind 

And moves her to engagement. 
Brkwstkr. — Give her way : 

The appetite of sickness is its cure 

In many instances. 
Kenyon. — I doubt it not; 

Nor hold it wise that natural bent be checked 

Which makes for health ; but, sir, her mother chid 

The subordination of society 

To literature ; nor ever did deny 

The credence of her literary art. 

But begged she make society her care : 

To which our daughter briefly made reply, 

' ' Well, mother, as you choose, ' ' 

And therewith ceased to write. 
Brewster. — Has she ambition 

In literature? 
Kenyon. — Quite empty of ambition 

That makes accomplishment of revenue. 



Brewstejr. — Has she belief in her ability? 

Kknyon. — Even now she has belief and now has not. 

I counseled her, Belief is inspiration ; 

And in my counsel she was half resolved 

Yet with a mind most mutable at best. 
Brewster. — She 's mutable to argument? 
Kenyon. — One who sees 

The eternal truth within the instant beauty. 

But, sir, in your ability we rest ; 

You have the true physician's inner light 

We nothing doubt, and shall be ruled by you. 
Brewster.— 

Since ability has the privilege of silence, 

I'll nor beget opinion but remedy. 

Suffice you quiet your fears for Harriet, 

Then, sir, give her consent to literature 

And draw her out to her validity ; 

Therein she'll lose this ennui and be healed. 

Enter Mis. Kenyon. 
Kenyon. — 

Madam, our speech is touching Harriet : 

Take comfort, free yourself from heaviness ; 

There 's nothing serious and what 's disjoint 

Has remed3^ 
Mrs. Kenyon. — 'Tis comforting to think. 

Ah, sir, the patient herein cures herself 

Whenever she shall learn obedience 

And duty to the deed. 
Brewster.— Obedience 

Attends on health as surely as arrives 

At health ; and therefore, madam, I advise 



That Harriet have the privilege of letters, 
In which, I'm given now to understand, 
She has peculiar interest, and as interest 
Is not particular in this respect 
But leads to interest, madam, we will trust, 
Still patient, that within a little time 
Your daughter will o'ertop expectancy 
And flatter your ideal. 

Kknyon. — I think it well. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — 

Why literature, and not society ? 
Ah, sir, she 's obstinate in some degree — 
I must say that and yet I would not sa}^ it ; 
But reservation with the physician, sir, 
Is often death with the patient — obstinate : 
She need but say, "This is unprofitable ", 
And without indirection or entreaty 
Take up the jewel of society 
And wear it on her brow. 

Brkwstkr. — This obduracy 

Is even as a canker on the brow ; 
A breach of nature which my art must heal. 
'Tis palpable to a physician. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — I grant you right. 
And through respect of letters Harriet 
Will gather interest, by which indirection 
She will return into society ? 

Brkwstkr. — 

Health will make love to uncongenial labors. 
While sickness often loathes the native talent. 
I take my leave. 



Mrs. Kknyon. — We' 11 cherisli your advice. \Exit 
I'll importune our daughter to attend Brewster 

This evening's gathering of the literati. 

Enter Mrs. Hartlaftd and Harriet. 

1,00k where she comes. Harriet, this afternoon 

You honor Mrs. Carthage's invitation, 

And school yourself to grasp her latest poem 

Which she will read ; and I am very sure 

Harriet can make defeat to the syllable 

Upon this work. 
Kejnyon. — Harriet, I 've faith in you. 

Mrs. Hartland. — Surely my niece cannot then doubt 

herself. 
Harrikt. — (Aside) A little more of doubt would be 

more kind. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — You will attend ? 
Harriet. — If you desire it, mother, 

I shall obey. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — I knew you would say so. 
Harriet.— 

I shall obey. Pray you, was 't Stephen Burke 

That quit the room ? I would return a book 

If he 's about. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — Not Stephen, Harriet. 

Can you conceive — or is 't not possible — 

How cruel it is you still repel his love ? 

Therein you spurn our own. Are you not bound 

By all the commune of an earlier day. 

By interchange of vows, by understanding, 

203 



By the unwritten covenant of your honor, 
To surrender up yourself to Stephen Burke 
As his sweet wife ? 

Harriet. — Yes, mother, I can conceive. 

Kknyon. — 

It is a subject, daughter, I cannot shield 
The comment on. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — Then why continue unmoved, 
Or moved to contraries ? 

Harriet.— I'll tell you why, 

And repetition may be good for truth. 
It pleased you in a better time, when past 
The immediate bound of mewed maidenhood 
I yet had ventured scarce one syllable. 
To move me to consent to be his wife : 
But I have grown from childhood — O so long ! — 
And found this must not be though this must be, 
For I respect him not. 

Kknyon. — Harriet, take thought, 

And cabin not this ample spirit thus. 
Out, wretched penury of bachelorhood ! 
With no philosophy but selfishness, 
What altar may its prayer find comfort at ? 
Where may it kneel for grace? Then be resolved. 
I chide you not the less, but love 3^ou more ; 
A father's blessing take your duty up 
And compass you about. S^Exit. 

Mrs. HARTI.AND. — I^et us believe 

That you are troubled, not divided, niece. 



204 



Mrs. Kenyon. — 
She takes no thought of the morrow, Harriet, 
That maiden who no thought of a husband takes. 
Confess you'll be the wife of Stephen Burke, 
Thereby the name of Burke be firmly knit 
To that of Kenyon in alliance meet. 
How fit in action 'tis our elder houses 
And forefirst should by marriage be united 
And incorporate descend. Come, Albertine, 
Our niece and daughter loves us ; love is final. 

{Exeunt Mrs. Kenyon and Mrs. Hartland. 

Harriet. — 

O fie, fie, mother, to plot with flesh and blood ! 

Shame on you ! ah shame ! you cannot care for me ; 

It is unnatural — and it will not prosper. 

O God ! why was I born ? or being born. 

Why did I not die in my infancy ? ^ 

Or why am I a woman ? O heavenly powers ! 

What is a woman if her all in all 

Is still to yield herself in marriage up 

That she may feed and clothe and bourn herself 

Free from the unkind, rude and enslaving mart, 

Or quicken her family in the social tides. 

Or live in idle, wanton luxury — 

A mistress, a purchase, or a beast ; no more. 

And who calls Harriet that ? not Harriet 

But Harriet's mother ! and one — O religious choice!— 

That would be Harriet's husband and in her child 

Point out his brow ! I'd rather be a worm 



205 



And feed on dust than be allied to him: 
But sufifer still for I am but a woman . 

Enter Idilia. 

Idilia. — Come into the conservatory, Harriet. 

Harriet. — I was thinking, Idilia, thinking. 

Idilia. — You think too much of late : Lord keep my 
daughters green. 

Harriet. — Could not I — consider it for me — by the 
ingrafted loves of the time, by youth, by talent, by tem- 
perament, by willing sufferance, and by that special provi- 
dence in will, earn an humble yet honorable living as a 
contrite poet ? 

Idilia. — Nay, sweet Harriet, you cannot milk the 
stars. Alas ! a man wall starve at poetry, and a woman 
will marry at it : therefore, since you may not insinuate 
you are a man and stand with those spirits to whom hunger 
are riches, and since, as a woman, you are sworn to con- 
tinue a bachelor-maid, I pray you divide your inspiration 
amongst the quick, lay no perjury to your free soul, and 
come into the conservatory. 

Harriet. — I am resolved. lExeimt. 

Scene 2. — A club room. 

Enter Claudius and Drake ^ meeting. 

Claudius. — Rodman ! 

Drake. — Claudius ! 

Claudius. — You were near and I thought of you. 

Drake. — 

You are right welcome back to San Francisco. 

But what occasion hastens your return ? 
206 



I thought on you as taxing yet the North 
With rod and gun in search of quality 
That bends the spirit up : yet am right glad 
We have you back again. 

C1.AUDIUS. — I'll tell you, Drake : 

There was a kind of fever in my blood, 
And an electric dilatation in my brain, 
That plucked the soul from my employment, 
And, compulsive in the solitude of hills, 
Encamped beneath the multitudinous pine. 
Drove me to take my heart into my bosom 
And come again, for, sir, in single truth, 
I have conceived a work, an epic poem, 
And fain would make essay. 

Drake. — Then on the vast 

Of epic we shall hail your spirit bark. 
That sea along whose shore the poets walk, 
And dream of airs from heaven's concave hill. 

Claudius. — 

To be, and have the attributes of man 
That wait on the human heart and instrument 
Its finer purposes, lending to a thought 
The quality of action, and to a dream 
A form and nature palpable : to love, 
And have an imagination and a scope 
Of light of largeness and of beauty filled 
With all the loves of nature and of man, 
That shall not fall into the lees : to write, 
And have the * * vision and faculty divine ' ' 
To rear nature to art and art to nature. 
Making imagination and heroic truths 
207 



An almost universal inheritance 
Through resolved and expressed beautj' : to die, 
And in his ever-living native language 
Renowned dwell, a generation and 
A race of truth, bequeathing downward still 
Unto the heart that will not see it die, 
For the poet is a spirit, the legacy 
Of some most noble poem that has resolved 
The spirit of his country and his age 
For all time : this is the epic poet's part : 
And what more noble can the mind essay 
That is of letters and inheritance ? 
Drake. — There 's no beam in the mind's construction 
to weigh two equal parts and find one wanting : I must 
stand indifferent, neither heat your pride nor cool your 
hopes ; your courage equals the difficulties, but the work 
is as great as your art. 

Claudius. — There are tears for the thought, toil for 
the work, and ambition for the utterance. 

Enter Burke and Curtis. 

BuRKK. — Spencer ! how wears the world with you ? 
Claudius.— As with yourself. 

Burke. — Then you grow strange. {I?itrodud7ig Curtis) 
My friend, John Curtis : sir, Claudius Spencer. 
Curtis. — One who knew you first in spirit. 
Claudius. — I must invert that speech with you. 

Enter Todd. 

Todd. — Is the excellent Claudius returned ? Zounds ! 
you come tardily off; your book has been published these 

208 



three weeks, and the critics go still unchallenged. 
Queerquill, who makes oblivion his occupation, has made 
an impious feast of it, and, as for the public,— why, 
gentlemen, you must shock the public or the public will 
shock you. 
ClaudiUvS. — 

He 's not a fool but a dishonest man: 
I cannot answer fools and dishonest men. 
Todd.— Yet sometimes honor the liar for his English. 

Cl^AUDIUS, — 

Soft, ere you go : I pray you say to him 

The God that made Queerquill did not make me. 

Say that I spoke thus far. 
Curtis.— Who is this critic? 

C1.AUDIUS. — 

One that has made a kennel of a trust 

To make him feared. 
Todd.— 'Tis true he 's better known 

Through hate than love, abuse than compliment: 

Yet 'tis a kind of honor to be damned; 

The damned are always gifted. 
Drake.— Shall we say 

Among these gifted you are numbered, Todd ? 
Todd.— Faith, every one to his opinion, Drake, 

And every opinion to its truth. 
Claudius.— Why, so, 

It is a liberal and a fair reply. 

My book, you say, is published? 
Curtis.— Kven so. 

Your name 's the better title, and this work 

Has made your name more rare. 
209 



Burke. — The fount 

Of Helicon is rising in your brain, 
Pellucid and undefiled. 

Drake. — The masters and 

The reverence direct you still. 

Todd. — Zounds, sir, 

But how have you the conscience to have reverence 
In such opposing times? Take heed of that : 
The modern 's born for reform, an iconoclast 
Knocking old order from its pedestal of flesh, 
With laughter for a banner 'gainst the wind. 
But fare you well ; I hold that hour lost 
That is not given o'er to politics. ^Exit. 

Claudius. — A fool and his silence are soon parted. 
Curtis. — Who is this portly gentleman? 
Drake. — Why, he 's a kind of mocking spirit who 
divides his time between poetry and politics ; but a mere 
bubble in the sea of literature. He will know you better, 
Curtis, and swear it takes many kinds of fools to make a 
world. 
Burke. — 

My leisure is engaged ; but, gentlemen, 
lyet 's drink a toast within these rooms to-night 
With letters more or less. 
Claudius. — Content : good day. 

[Exeunt Burke and Curtis. 

Counsel me not to give my project o'er. 
Lest I grow idle and blasted at the top 
With ennui following enthusiasm 
Barren of works. 



Drake. — I would not be so rude 

As rend what beaut}^ thus has joined in you. 

C1.AUDIUS. — 

Remember then that certain suit of mine, 
Which ended only in your readiness 
By reason of mj^ absence and what else 
Has come between my purpose and its act. 
I would be introduced to Harriet Kenyon, 
Whose yet unpublished lyrics I have read, 
Under your friendship and your courtesy, 
And greatly pleased am moved to know the poet. 

Drakk. — 

Your works are not esteemed the less by her. 
Nor is she less desirous of your friendship. 
This afternoon I will effect your suit 
If leisure wait on opportunity. 

Claudius. — 

I'll wait upon you with the afternoon. 

Nay, come, let 's go together. {^Exeunt. 

Scene s. — Room in Kenyon' s house. 

Enter Harriet and Idilia, 

Harriet. — 

There 's nothing I may call my own but doubt. 

Idilia. — 

O for a lover's voice to lure you back 
From that long road that turns not in the grave. 
I'll weep that you find true divinity 
In the text of tears ; I'll go unto the babe 
And learn to weep that Harriet amend. 
211 



Harriet. — 

Nay, but to be a picture and no more, 
A picture merely, for the weary world 
To gaze upon. 

IDII.IA. — O you attentive spirits, 

Steep me in patience even to the lips. 
Why need you hasten hence unto truth's end 
To do the biddings of extravagancy ? 
If you will follow some peculiar art, 
Make me your practice and your recompense. 
If you will be a lawyer, speak the faith, 
And I will be your fee-apparent still : 
Yea, if you'll be physician, out of love 
I bear you wholly, I'll be lunatic 
And fee you like a queen. 

Harriet.— To be a puppet 

Of rotten strings ! 

Idii^ia.— Alas, alas ! 

Harriet. — A sponge ! 

Idii^ia. — 

The heavens make you better company: 

Till then, I will be absent from your side. 

But soft, I '11 break my mail ; this journal is 

Dan Cupid's calendar, who, I pray God, 

Will quit his mother's side a summer's eve 

And drop from Venus like a falling rose 

Into m}^ Harriet's study. \_She reads apart. 

Harriet. — O understand me. 

My mind is changed, and, like the sulphur bed 
That turns the stream to wormwood, my galled brain 
Will bite the sweetest spring to bitterness. 

212 



IDII.IA. — 

O, Harriet, you are injured ! look on this. 

Who has outraged my cousin ? Shame on him, 

Ah, shame ! 
Harriet. — Beseech you. 

Idii^ia. — lyook here : {Giviiig Harriet a 

\_ paper) afar and yet 

That has in it a June and scent of orange 

You 're betrothed to Stephen Burke. 
Harrikt. — I^et 's see : so, so. 

Who, think you, was so kind and generous 

As to publish this ? {Aside) My mother : yes. 
IDII.IA. — I do not know; indeed, I do not know. 
Harriet. — 

O I smell method in each syllable: 

The instigator is not far away. 

O, God ! what is the use of anything ? 
Idii^ia. — 

Nay, cousin, take it not so serious; 

But profit by denial of this thing. 
Harriet. — 

Believe me, it was I who did this thing: 

Ay, even I, IdiHa, even I; 

Then let 's be merry. {Knocki?ig withi?i.) 

Hark, who 's there ! let 's see. {Ope?is the door.) 

Enter Edmund. 

Edmund. — 

Cousin, your mother seeks to speak with you. 

Idilia. come. 
Idii^ia. — Away ! you do offense. 

213 



Edmund. — 

How now, there 's somethmg has offended j^ou. 

What can it be ? 
Harriet. — Ah, sir, I have been wronged, 

Grievousl}' wronged. 
Idilia. — I also have been wronged. 

Edmund. — May not I serve you, then ? 
Harriet. — A jest, a jest. 

Away, sir, you are dull : we shall obey. 

Come, who would not obey. 

Idilia. — Harriet can do no wrong. 

[^Exeunt. 

Sceiie 4. — A room in Spencer's house. 

E7iter John and Venetia. 

John. — 

My gentle niece, your absence grieves me much, 

And with yourself my daughter goes along. 

For so you are to me ; yet I rejoice, 

Ay, even to the limit of my heart. 

You soon shall leave us to endow your voice, 

Schooling yourself through several studious years 

For the operatic stage. 

Venetia. — O say no more ; 

I yet shall tarry many, many days : 
Nor teach me of what stuff farewell is made 
Till farewell 's ripe, lest I repent of that 
Which merely to imagine is so painful. 
I pray you tell me this. 

John. — As I have grace. 

214 



V^NKTIA. — 

Have I not builded merely on my hopes? 

My hopes, slight things, like high spun spider 

threads, 
With everj^ vaunting wind aspire to fix 
Their ends within the clouds to fall quite down 
When vanity no longer sta^^s them. 
Dare I aspire to stage m}^ barren voice 
Where plaudits echo still ? 

John. — Freely you may. 

Your voice by nature is endowed to compare 
With many still renowned, and through that art 
Which 3 ou shall gain at the academy 
May court renown. 

Venktia. — Adieu: I'll busy m3'self 

In the voice of counsel. {^Exitjohn. 

A long farewell to doubt ; 
I'll send it begging for a burial 
That from this moment I may court renown. 
But come, prophetic studies, with stern thoughts, 
And allay the ecstasy that 's in my blood 
lyest joy should make that seem a holiday 
Which needs be studious and full of care. 

Enter Spencer {blind.) 

Spencer. — 

How secretly could I thank adversity, 

Which like the brackish pool where we must drink 

Wears yet within it the sweet face of heaven, 

If but adversity w^ould wrack those means 

That buy my daughter tutorage abroad 

215 



And steals her from the winter of my life ; 
For I shall miss her as the heart but can 
When age has rooted deep its last affection. 
Ah well ! she has my dear consent and speed, 
And I am loath to make of youth a crutch 
That age may go more upright in its carriage. 
So should it be : and I'm advanced in years, 
Too old to fellow with her darling youth 
Which is not youth but in companionship 
Of equal years ; too old to recompense 
But never too old to grieve. {Exit. 

Vknetia. — O, Venetia! 

What have you dreamed about that never yet 

You dreamed of this? He grieves to have me gone, 

Yet ever smiled me off in love. Alas, 

I did not look so deep ! I saw but joy 

Where utmost sorrow is. Yet all is well ; 

I'll give the stage back to the stage of dreams, 

And here at home will ever cherish him 

Forgetting there 's another star than love. 

O thanks to that which taught him self commune, 

That gentle habit of an earlier day, 

For it has tutored me. Then, farewell my dream 

That made the night a heaven and the day 

A dream full of ambition, fare you well; 

Although that I were gifted at the throat 

Above all women that have gone before 

In the most sweet list of recorded singers. 

The reverence and obedience I owe 

Must throw ambition out and leave me mute, 

Quite, quite mute. 

216 



Enter Claudius. 

Brother ! Claudius ! you ! 
You did not send us word : why have you come — 
You are not sick ? 

Claudius.— Not sick, Venetia, 

I have not tasted of this fitful cup. 
Be then assured health brings me again 
In certain occupation, of which anon 
I '11 speak about. Are you at leisure, dear? 

Venktia. — What would you have me do ? 

C1.AUDIUS. — O come away 

And take the hour with pleasure; even there 
Where one shall introduce us to a poet 
We ever wished to know, Harriet Kenyon. 

Ve^netia.— 

lyate at a musical I met this poet: 

A certain grace dwelt Hke a friend in her 

That I may almost say, This is my friend; 

Although she looked through me and saw my kin. 

For I am but a glass to Claudius 

That you are never absent and myself 

Yet never present. So oft it is, indeed, 

Some do but hold the mirror to their kin 

And in themselves are nothing. 

C1.AUDIUS.— Speak not thus. 

You are a glass wherein the world doth see 

The sweetest flower in the May of song. 

But come, the afternoon is almost spent. {Exeunt. 



217 



Scene 5. — A room in Kenyon's house. 
Enter Kenyon and Mrs. Kenyan. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — 

Husband, I'm wondrous light, and you can read 
The language of my feelings to that text. 
Comes Harriet to my room upon a word 
From cousin Edmund, and there takes my hand 
And saying thrice, " Mother can do no wrong," 
Embraces and kisses me a world of times : 
O most, most dutiful. 

Kenyon. — Believe me. Hazel, 

This little privilege of literature 
Has moved her from contraries to respect. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — 

Ah, husband, let the rude world doubt its fill, 
Our children are indeed the top of grace. 
There' re times when we are troubled deep, and yet 
A little patience and our hearts are cheered 
Even then in the extremity of their dolor. 

Kenyon. — The doctor shall be thanked. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — The parent faith 

Was shaken at the root ; but all is healed. 
We shall attend our daughter' s wedding yet, 

And live to give a fair grandchild a name. 

[Exeunt. 
Scene 6. — In private parlors. 

Hostess, Claudius, Burke, Drake, Curtis, Harriet, Venetia, Tdilia, 
afid several literary Men and Women discovered. 

Harriet. — 

Persuade no more; you do me wrong, my friends. 

To beg I publish. I^et me not be moved 

218 



To sharp repentance for these things set down. 

I 've writ me down' a sadness, friends, in that 

I 've published to the eyes of gentle friends: 

Yet therein I may happily perceive 

The largeness of silence and henceforth be moved 

Unto mute numbers. 
Claudius. — Our works are then in vain, 

If not in vanity. 
BuRKK.— 'Tis chief in this, 

The little writers die upon neglect 

When great ones publish. 
Harrikt.— Believe me, Mr. Burke, 

Your speech is something to be thought upon 

If not to be believed. 
HosTKSS.— I 'm very sure 

Miss Kenyon will not let us lose our prayers. 

In silence there 's no art. 
Harriet.— Nay, there 's great art, 

For silence, madam, goes before discourse. 
Idii^ia. — 

But in this silence there 's no literature. 

be assured I will press this suit. 

And if there 's argument in a woman's tongue, 

1 shall convince you publication 's wise; 
If there is music in a woman's tongue, 

I '11 so attune it to the ears of doubt 

That heresy dies in music. 
Harriet.— I am firm. 

Claudius. — 

Allow me to speak— not in authority 

But sorrow : it were all alike in grace 
219 



If we had never written what we bring 
To letters should we, by a drift of thought, 
Withold from publication for the world 
That which we write, for beauty, rarity. 
And truth are in communion, not in thought. 
Harriet. — 

silence that dreadful logic, lest it put 

A conscience in delay. Believe me, friends, 

1 cannot stand against moral persuasion : 
Confounded with belief and sick of doubt, 
My heart cries mercy and my pen is armed 
Against delay, and O, no doubt, good friends, 
I'll leap my pause. 

Enter Critic of Letters. 

Hostess. — But look, who 's he comes here 

To smell the burning of his criticisms ? 

Harriet. — 

Forbear, lest you should bruise the head of peace. 
O welcome, sir, — if I have voice at court 
That 's heard above the triumph of ingratitude — 
Thrice welcome to the guardage of this court. 
Dimmed is the precious jewel of content 
Or wholly lost, by flatterers despoiled 
Even from the gracious brow of constancy : — 
They have persuaded me to throw myself 
With all my music on the multitude. 
To publish what is written and what 's to come ; 
Then you are welcome that 3^our heart grow kind 
To stamp approval on my published works 
And glance my latent powers. 
220 



Critic. — These are good works. 

Out of the godless yet good works shall come, 
Though peace may never enter in to dwell. 
O, dear lady, you seem to welcome me selfishly, yet 
it is to make me doubly welcome ; while for these vipers 
of review, they either mistake me for a fellow critic who 
runs his losing race alone, or assume I wrong them and 
support the assumption on the belief ; for, indeed, I am 
the mildest of a most gentle school, a turtle amongst 
doves ; one who would not mock their dullest thought, 
for He who made truth also made silence. 
HosTKSS. — Ho ! entertainment for the witty. 
lyT. Man. — 

Originality is a long lost art, 
Else had our critic not been thus indebted 
For his initial scorn to Shakespeare's works. 
Critic. — You do me wrong ; I borrow scorn of none. 
I/T. Woman. — 

Shakespeare ? some say his authorship ' s a thing 
To make a question of. 
Harrikt. — O believe me, madam, 

Were I not out of credit with the time 
There were a book hanging upon my lips — 
For out of that dear love I bear to truth 
I'll not subscribe myself to compliment, 
To write but in the beaten way of pens 
Forbearing discourse touching what is new 
In fear of slander dwelling in the new ; 
So, were I well in credit with the time> 
That not but publication come of it, 



I would set down how that Elizabeth 
Conceived these dramas that mount each on each 
Until the whole seems greater than its parts 
That climb so high, and make for all the world 
A new world, madam, and a new Shakespeare 
For ages. 

Lt. Man.— There 's nothing true but "gentle Will." 

Hostess. — 

Miss Spencer, I beseech you to sing to us; 

And, friends, the passing evening shall be closed 

With reading of a sonnet by Miss Kenyon. 

Harriet. — 

I'm not in sonnet humor; let it go by, 
And read j^our ballad to this gentleman 
Who comes so tardily. 

Hostess. — Pardon me: 

I am not flattered that he still delays 
To freeze a period to applause. 

Critic. — You're kind. 

Hostess. — Miss Spencer, sing to us. 

Venetia. — Since love is dead 

Between you two, I '11 bury love in song. 

SONG. 

Come from the sunny South, O Spring, 

'Neath ever-golden skies, 
Come from the swallow on the wing 

Through bloomy spray that flies; 
Thy bud of love on dewy brier 

Was all in vain; 
Thy heart of pure seraphic fire 
Is slain. 



Crown not a lover rare, O Spring, 

On happy bridal day; 
Fly not upon the swallow's wing 

Through falling almond spray; 
But brush thy dews from chaliced morn 

And come again, 
And weep beside the grave forlorn 
Where I^ove is lain. 

Critic. — A sad world, my masters, and not half acted. 
Believe me. Miss Spencer, j^our voice is excuse for this 
lyric of your brother's, and for its excuse, rendered with 
infinite grace, may it live. 

Vknetia. — Ah, sir, you have no compliments but 
upon paper. 

Harriet. — And has no reasons but upon paper. 

Drakk. — By his criticisms we know him : he has 
praised the singer ; he knows what is graceful : he has 
denied the song ; he envies what is graceful. 

Hostess. — 

You have spoken all. Miss Kenyon, look on this: 
Say that I found it — how I came by it, 
You are to learn — and since the thing is found 
It shall be read. 

Harriet. — I pray you, give it me, 

And I will read it in pure courtesy. 
What 's this, a sonnet ? 

Hostess. — Honor unto him 

Who framed the sonnet, or rather did it grow, 
Fed on Arcadian dews and sylvan light, 
And song Provencal. 

223 



Harrikt. — That asks too much. {Reads) 

Lady, thy daughter is a glass divine 

Wherein thou seest thyself as God sees thee, 
For thou hast nurtured her till visibly 

She is become those actions which were thine : 

The light upon her forehead doth enshrine 
All virtue, gentleness and charity, 
All love, all faith, all hope, which graciously 

Thou didst with thy sweet motherhood intwine. 

Her face lifts up thy deeds to heaven : and thou. 
Who shall be visited, ah, never more. 
Until that season sweet thy dead restore, 

By airs from thy departed husband's brow! 

Mayest look upon thy daughter's face and see 

The father's eyes which keep eternal watch o'er thee. 

Our failures were tolerable were it not for our defenders, 
else would I ask if there is not present one who can look 
deeper than all the schools and edify me why it is that 
mine and mine hostess' sex has never produced a master 
spirit in poetry. 

Ci<AUDius . — (A side) 

It has not in its heart the love of woman. 
Whereby to mount the heights of inspiration. 
HosTKSS. — 

Lo ! there she stands, a self-made infidel 
To Grecian Sappho and that lovely twain 
That sang in England's front. O for a blush 
That would not fade, that shame might never down 
From that apostate brow. 
Harrikt. — Pity me then ; 

Or make the golden rule the golden deed 
And turn me going. 

224 



HosTKSS. — Yet not unchallenged 

Shall you deny the sex. O dear, my friends, 
Even as twilight falls come this day week, 
And I shall answer this unkindest charge 
And make misjudgment more than judgment yield. 

IvT. Woman. — O doubt us not. 

Harriet. — Then come : I'm sure each guest 

Has spent a pleasant evening ; for myself, most so. 

Hostess. — I live to receive my friends ; my friends 
make it my choice. Come out beneath the palms ; mid- 
summer's twilight long lingers the parting guest. 

CivAUDius. — {Aside) 

She moves with the arch of beauty on her brow 
And in untroubled youth ; and I, who love 
The very name of woman, must love the truth. 

[Exeunt. 




225 



ACT II. 

Scene i. — A public square. 

Enter Burke and Curtis. 

BuRKK. — Mark you, Curtis, here is a familiar spirit 
who, since he must be beaten by brains, will have them 

his own. 

Enter Todd. 

Well, Dugal, shall you pluck that gilded 
honor? One of our papers, Curtis, has offered an hand- 
some sum for a novel polling the maj or vote of its literary 
committee, at which prize Todd has made his endeavor. 

Todd.- — Gentlemen, you see before you an illustrious 
poet and novelist made in the image of himself, yet, as I 
make literature, o'er-crowed by neither an author nor the 
son of an author. Ah, gentlemen, the god and the dream 
have come to a sad pass since the hope of American 
letters rests with one man and that man living from debit 
to dun. 

BuRKK. — Well, nothing succeeds but success, you 
know — in literature. 

Todd. — O I shall keep my injury rolling till 'tis bigger 
than a church door and grosser than the nose act, I mean 
the riot act. Why, what a thing it is, gentlemen, that a 
book should be a fever ! I read this successful work on 
principle, but it was damned poor principle. 

226 



BuRKK. — At least my cousin decided in your favor? he 
is on this committee of twelve, a critic of critics — and, 
sure, I approached him in the matter. 

Todd. — I thank you, Burke, heartily, heartily; but 
you know the proverb — Good kith hath poor kin. 

BuRKK. — Is 't possible he denied me? 

Todd. — Very like, very like. But here 's my consola- 
tion — there 's no divinity in numbers; twelve asses' heads 
don't make one god-head. By 'r noses, gentlemen, since 
this award was ratified by noses, if ye will stand by me 
I '11 have a plaster o' paris cast of our noses forwarded 
this committee as a petition to reconsider the award. O 
lyord, this will be a moving petition if ever there was a 
moving petition. Courage, gentlemen, where there 's an 
American there 's a way. iExit. 

BuRKK. — I never may be in love with my state till 
hearing a foolish fellow discourse. Surely Providence 
made fools for wisdom's content, and made no two fools 
alike. 
Curtis. — 

I understand you have a suit with me: 
What is it, Burke? 
BuRKK. — Ay. You know Claudius Spencer ? 

Curtis. — Why, so I do ! 

BuRKK. — He 's passionate, sensitive, proud; 

A man to famish on opinion 'fore 
He '11 feast on faction: charitable to give. 
But not to take in way of charity; 
And every gift has in ' t a soul of insult 
Howsoe'er the giver clothe it with the grace 

227 



Of equality: a man of sterling parts 
Deserving a wider adulation and 
The means to pl}^ his art. 

Curtis. — All 's granted here. 

Burke. — 

He 's poor, and comes report that he has lost 
The humble means he had. In faith, I think 
God keeps the poet poor to find him tender. 

Curtis. — Your suit. 

Burke. — Now, sir, out of this povert}^ 

Leaps pride, that, yoked unto the rest of him. 
Makes him a very bundle of offences — 
Since there is no offence but in our thoughts — 
And cannot but smother up his art in chaff 
At the enslaving mart unless he is relieved. 
And how much he does herein pla}^ the fool, 
How much contraries, is for fools to saj^; 
Sufl&ce I cannot be open in my love, 
And needs must go about it covertly. 

Curtis. — Well, very well. 

Burke. — Curtis, j^ou are my friend. 

And silence approves that bond. 

Curtis. — Let 's hear j^our suit. 

Burke. — 

Sir, you have edited within the East 
And must have knowledge and authority 
Touching my project. Is 't not possible. 
For certain sums which lie at your command, 
To buy our worth}' friend into the staff 
Of any literary magazine 
That would afford him living near his art 
22S 



And throw time in his way, that he effect 

His clear poetic ends, nor be the wiser 

In manner of procurement? 
Curtis. — 'T is possible. 

Burke. — 

Why, so I think ; nor be penurious, 

And, for your recompense, my hearty thanks. 

He oft has wished position in the East 

Where his collegiate friends are under yoke. 

Then let my charity fail not in this. 
Curtis. — 

In New York City I can place him thrice 

In office for the which he 's qualified. 
BuRKK. — 'T is open charity. 
Curtis. — But I'm engaged : 

Appoint a time. 
Burke. — To-night, at eight o'clock, 

Spencer and several others will attend 

Within my rooms ; and there we may essay. 

Indirectly, the disposition of himself 

Nearest our means. 

Curtis. — You're kind: I'll come: adieu. 

\_Exit. 

Burke. — A speculation and a charity it is. 

Good acquaintance here is artifice enough; 

Good acquaintance makes good riddance of Claudius 

Who '11 draw my Harriet on to leap that line 

Her parents have chalked forth on honor's field, 

Losing me her and testament enough 

To breed abundance in an Indian famine; 

For sure they have been married in their minds, 

229 



This poet and this melancholy girl, 

And should I fail to separate them soon 

That marriage will have a corporal body in 't. 

[Exit. 

Scene 2. — Parlors in Kenyon's house. 

Enter Kenyan and Brewster. 

Brkwstkr. — 

She has disputed me — which is good sign 

She mends within — and has the irritability 

Of health. 
Kknyon. — She labors wholly at her book: 

She has collected what was written down 

And edits it for press. 
Brkwster.— Occupation 's good. 

The dubitable honors and indubitable labors 

Of literature may soon persuade her back 

Into society, when once inured 

Unto this growth of spirit and physical ripening; 

But in the meantime leave her to herself. 

Good day. 

Kknyon. — We 're much beholden to you, sir. 

[^Exit Brewster. 
Is not the best physician charity ? 

Is Harriet strange but in the matter of 
This union we would have with Stephen Burke, 
Which aim her mother still unhappily keeps 
At the top of all occasions and discourse ? 
Enter Mrs. Kenyan. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — 

Husband, I think obedience is dead, 
Or fixed in the parent and declining brow 
230 



Accounts in an inverted order, for, sir, 
I ask my child, as duteous as her hand, 
When she will marry Stephen and approve 
The honor of her parents and herself : 
Then she desired to know what length of time 
Her mother will extend her wedding day. 
Almost upon my knees, I point to her 
That marriage is a question of person , not of time ; 
To which she answers, ' ' I will be his wife 
When I am hearsed." 
Kenyon. — This is a strange 'havior : ay ! 

And makes me loathe her. What, her mother ! hush ! 
I'll speak with her. 

Enter Harriet. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — Look where she comes alone. 
Let us go hence : too much we have of late 
Given her presence. Come, let us not stay ; 
Less parent love may prove larger child love. 
Be swayed by me. 

Kknyon. — This can, at least, have trial. 

{Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon. 

Harriet. — 

Whether in nature there 's divinity 
That shapes belief, resolving in our thoughts 
And in persuasion that weighs on the heart 
A soul of inspiration, which, obej^ed. 
Leads on to purer truths and better days 
Through that ideal preceding still the real. 
Fain would I know that I might know myself. 
And when I look in nature with a mind 

231 



Which is of nature, nature I perceive 

Is most divinely shaped, and who so rude 

As to attempt to sever thought from nature 

That not this outward pressure and sequence 

Give inward thought ; which, of divinity 

Directing us, needs be divinity 

To direct us still. And this should give us faith 

That there 's a parentage in all who breathe, 

And none so humble but that, being moved. 

Should make him an engagement of belief, 

Though yet his deeds have part with accident, 

For accident of flesh is argument 

Of spirit till the consummation is 

Or custom 's overthrown. Then let it stand 

I shall not marry without perfect love, 

That I may cherish still the pure ideal 

That 's never lost; losing myself for love. 

Enter Idilia. 

Idilia. — Has my cousin a wish? 

Harriet. — Ay. 

Idilia.— What is 't? 

Harriet. — I would you were my husband. 

Idilia. — Why ? 

Harriet. — I would kiss you. 

Idilia. — I will weep. 

Harriet. — W^hat is love, cousin? 

Idilia. — A poet and not comprehend love ! 

Harriet. — The poets are not vessels of comprehension 
but vessels for comprehension. Come, what is love? 
Ay, answer me that and I will answer the sphinx. 

232 



IDII.IA. — That kind of love we are never to touch 
upon, neither waking nor dreaming? 

Harriet. — Ay. 

Idilia. — Surely the master passion has beginning and 
end, height and depth, — I have loved: is qualified by time 
and circumstance, — I have sounded its depths and shoals: 
and has much about its mystery that is of nature, — I have 
looked on its mortality: yet I know not what in nature 
it is. 

Harriet. — Very likely it is as gold in nature, having, 
as yet, no analysis. And shall we not discover the phil- 
osopher stone of love, as 't were, subduing nature with 
nature even to the top and bent of will ? 

Idilia. — Nay, gold is the philosopher stone of love, 
love the philosopher stone of gold. 

Harriet.— So, so ! gold is the philosopher stone of 
love. I could make merry now with an onion: I see an 
old friend in this argument. O there are great days to- 
ward, cousin, or nights rather, wherein we shall draw 
the moon to approved brine with subdued loves. I would 
I were alive. 

Idilia. — You are not in love; you are too melanchol}^ 
to be a lover. 

Harriet. — Only the melancholy know how to love; 
which is to say, only a lover knows how to love: but I am 
not in love. Were you ever in love? 

Idilia. — Who wreathed my hair with orange blossoms 
at four, and brought crushed lilies to the mimic altar? 

Harriet. — But yesterday subdued to all sacrifices for 
love : to-day jocund and big with mocks even in the per- 

233 



son and matter of your passion. Teach me, is it thus? 
and with new knowledge comes new appetite. 

Idilia. — Speak of sin and be a prophet. 

Harriet. — True; slander riddles us all. 'Tis strange, 
'tis strange, 'tis material strange. Then, why should we 
not cast out love when it weighs with more palpable 
stuff? If love but serves its little day and is no more, 
should we not make its absence a kind of sickness and 
recover? I will think on 't. Pray you, loved you ever 
where you formerly detested ? 

Idilia. — Not I, Harriet. But truly I am a better lover 
for my loves. 

Harriet. — No : the lover is not wiser by experience 
nor perfected through practice. 

Idilia. — Let me think. 

Harriet. — Where does all true love go to, cousin? 

Idilia. — Lord Love, defend me. 

Harriet. — What is the end of love? 

Idilia. — Marriage. 

Harriet. — I know how to take you, cousin, but I 
know not how to take the difference. And love is not 
enduring; love 's a dream; love is nothing, begot of noth- 
ing, nourished by nothing, nourishes nothing, and returns 
to nothing ; more than peace and less than dust ; the 
beauty of romance, the folly of flesh and blood; the jewel 
of the lips, the canker of the heart. Then, if you love, 
love on : for mj'self , I will put love away and live for what 
remains; but without love I will never marry. 

Idilia. — I will give you to drink new wine from an 
old bottle and intoxicate the spirit. Some are born 

234 



for marriage, some achieve marriage, and some have 
marriage thrust upon 'em. Go to, you were born with a 
veil. 

Harrikt. — Hark you, Idilia, if you will have the pity 
of 't. Some are born for bachelorhood, some achieve 
bachelorhood, and some have bachelorhood thrust upon 
them, I am one — well, we mingle our innocence apace. 

Idii^ia. — I dreamed about you last night. 

Harriet. — Ay, what did you dream about me? I 
would like to know the tricks I play in dreams. 

IdiIvIA. — I dreamed you would grow to be a mocker. 

Harriet. — Dreams oft have some soul of prophecy, 
for dreams are oft of uneasiness ; now uneasiness is of 
fear, fear is of respect, respect is of judgment, judgment 
is of reason, and reason is of probability. Therefore, I 
do not marvel at prophetic dreams. I myself, but an in- 
different dreamer, have dreamed of things that have come 
to pass : — yea, I have fulfilled a dream purposely that 
these things come to pass. This is prophecy by incita- 
tion. And love is not enduring ? 

Idii^ia. — I fear Harriet has journeyed into that world 
out of which but dreamers come. 

Enter Edmund. 

Harriet. — Cousin Edmund, you are very welcome. 
What is your philosophy of life? tell me that, cousin. 

Edmund. — My philosophy in life — is to live right on. 

Harriet. — O, you men, you men, how tough your sides 
are ! I envy you earth and allow j^ou what 's to come. 

Edmund. — Yes, man is well attended in his passage ; 
a philosopher and inheritor of two worlds. About what 

235 



he is, he needs no assurance ; by the faith of what he is 
to be, he cheers up the ros}^ hours. 

Harriet. — Heaven and earth ! to be tethered by your 
own sweet will and commendation ; not to dream but to 
do ; to be more than a picture and not less than modest. 
O for the apparel of a man ! to speak right on ; for a cus- 
tom that is not. But, indeed, the graceful are the free, 
and what I lack in freedom I lack in grace. I think, 
cousin, I have something of a man's philosophy but a 
woman's heart, and between the two I am neither woman 
nor reason. 

Edmund. — Neither rhythm nor reason ; for woman is 
the rhythm, man the reason. 

Harriet. — And what is rhythm without reason? — 
mere prettiness without truth. 

Edmund. — And what is reason without rh3^thm ? — 
mere knowledge without beauty. 

Harriet. — The conclusion is, man and woman are 
equal but different ; but the conclusion is not always 
the world. 

Edmund. — That is true. 

Enter Mrs. Kenyan, Claudius, Venetia, Drake, and Burke. 

Mrs. Ken yon. — Alter ipse amicus. 

Harriet. — O you are welcome, welcome all. I have 
here some poor company that has its hour and departs ; 
my thoughts, my thoughts. Welcome : shall we play at 
life? 

Mrs. Kenyon. — Miss Spencer is your only visitor. 
The gentlemen are come to have returned Mr. Spencer's 
manuscript and depart. 

236 



Harriet.— By your leave. \_Ej^iL 

Mrs. Kenyon. — 

My daughter's writings end with this forenoon: 
Her book shall go to press immediately. 

Burke. — To know the author is to know the work. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — 

Harriet inherits her father's charming talents, 
Her mother's sympathy and intuition. 

Re-enter Harriet. 

Harriet. — {Givhig Claudius ma?iuscript. ) 
I 've but one art and that has lost its heart 
Amidst a world of worth. 

Burke.— (^5/^^) 'Twill ** blast i' the bud :" 
A tool 's a prophet. 

Claudius. — The difference is all. 

My verse is rough hewn and audacious ; yours 
As light as airs that haunt the lyric muse. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — In truth, there 's much in that. 

Harriet. — I never can 

Read what exceeds my powers but I 'm obscured 

For many hours : and even as the artist 

Looking against the noontide's sun 's confounded 

In all design, I, in the pens of ages, 

Lose art and action, mocking what is written 

And despairing of what 's to come. 

Claudius. — A noble despair 

And seizes oft on all that write. 

Burke. — 'Tis so: 

Yet frequent reading these transcendent works 
Finds us all poets and keeps us so. 
237 



Harriet. — Ay, sir. 

And all great works are multitudinous ; 
Not one lone meaning do they yield us up, 
But every line rewrites the work again, 
For beauty is legion, and where one is blind 
Another has eyes and understanding. 
Drake. — Much upon these thoughts 

Still hang the miracles of the master poets: 
And there 's a soul in nature that with time 
Inverts the spirit, that from satire springs 
Reverence, from humor, pathos ; in history 
We see what 's hideous grow wondrous fair, 
What 's fair grow hideous. 
Harriet. — I've noticed that. 

O you've a spirit for infinite toil. 
And poetry seems but another name for duty, 
To write this worthy poem, Mr. Spencer, 
But to resolve you in the kind of epic 
You shall set down. 
C1.AUDIUS. — I am resolved therein : 

And what is ancient here grows modern. 
Harriet. — I chiefly admire Conselus' speech when he 
returns from the mountain of Ion a, where he was one, 
"Not dead, neither sleeping, but learning," and discovers 
his country divided against itself ; thereupon to plead in 
the name of his country's dead hero, who lies buried on 
lona's summit, for instant and perpetual peace. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — I'm very sure Mr. Spencer will read 
us this. 

Claudius. — If you choose, I will. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — I choose, sir. 

238 



CivAUDius. — I will come without additional circum- 
stance to the speech ; suffice the hero Miss Kenyon 
speaks of and the prophet herein are one. (^Reads) 

Impassioned rose Conselus in their midst 

And fulminated o'er the plumed hosts : 

lyO, where lona glory-capped climbs the dawn, 

High o'er the sable pageants of this earth 

The shocks of empire and the pride of man, 

A sacred covenant 'tween heart and heart. 

Thy prophet's bones have been forever laid. 

How hath the hills aspired with their dead, 

Visited but by the day star's peaceful beam ; 

Yet not among the untrodden ways of woe 

Dwells the immortal spirit of those bones, — 

Grim-visaged war, upon the prophet's head, 

Tiptoed to heaven shakes her bloody star. 

And sweeps the vulture to prophetic feast ; 

Troubling that prophet's spirit that did stem 

The tides of prophecy and prophesy 

A drunkard throned upon our cedared hills 

When to our hearts our hands should prove untrue : 

A prophet whose sincerest spirit taught, 

Perfection is a dream, truth is a work; 

A nature that arises with clear voice 

When truth's divinity is given man 

Borne on the widening and prophetic years: — 

And yet a little while was in our midst, 

But now is sleeping in the sacred vault 

Hewn in the glory of the eastern steeps. 

He was the spirit of our fond desires; 

239 



The North was in his bosom and his love 
Came like the smiling morn upon the East 
After the black sulphurous storms of night, 
And, filled with the blush of morning, from the hills 
Pulled down the thunderbolt and crowned Peace there. 
By his so gracious hand the martial East 
Has ceased to thunder, and the bounteous West 
Brings forth its foison to the harvest feast: 
By his so gracious works there sits no court 
In open session and in secret shame; — 
Hath flown the winged wolf from the Capitol, 
And from the gates is razed the bloody shield: 
By his so gracious heart and genial mind 
The arts have flourished and the truth has sprang ; 
And from the field a path leads to the court 
When humble loins uncommon metal yield, 
Nor is unknown a glory o'er that path: 
While from our hearts his spirit looks on law. 
Whose face is the most green and bounteous fields 
That none so low but Justice stoop to him. 
And shall divided sons, in pride of hate, 
Rear war between his nature and his rest, 
And earth seat winter in Elysium's fields? 
Never, whilst there is gratitude in man ! 
Peace is the victory thou shalt acclaim 
Unto the radiant rack o'er lona's hill ; 
Peace is the besom that from heaven's hill 
Shall sweep the vulture with his carrion wing. 
Then shall this azure vault be all for God, 
For truth, and for our country's steadfast star; 
And alien darkness and barbarous horde 
240 



Never shall be on our most divinest land, 

Nor blood be our frontier, nor Chaos king. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — There 's persuasion in it. 
Harriet. — There 's music in a name; 

And he, who is the hero of these lines, 

Is worthy his persuasion. An impassioned speech 

Of large repose. 
Burke. — ^ Aside) Na}^ depose ; mark, depose. 
C1.AUDIUS. — 

Your praise is very dear in my regard. 

Adieu. 
BuRKK. — First congratulating Miss Kenyon on the 
completion of her book. 

Harriet. — Pray, sir, do not mention it. Good day, 
gentlemen. [^Exeunt all bul Harriet and Venetia. 

Hark you, Venetia, I'll play the counselor : 

Fortune 's a fool to give you these sweet lips 

And not the world : God-gifted at the throat, 

But Fortune 's mute, unknown and unadored, 

You stand drooping. 
Venetia.— Hush ! do not praise my voice. 

Harriet. — 

Nay, do not praise the dead that should have wrought 

Intemporal beauty from a temporal seat. 

How golden is your hair ; mine is as dark 

As strangled midnight. I hate it ! 
Venetia. — Say not so : 

It becomes you well. 
Harriet. — Have you no wish a master 

Would train your voice up in the way of art 

As high as heaven ? 

241 



Vknetia. — Alas, alas, alas ! 

Harriet. — {^Foridling Venetians hair) Venetia, will 

you daflf these locks for art ? 
Vknktia. — 

Fie, not for any art beneath the sun ! 

Nor for all that which has the power to shake 

The soul of woman, and evil angels essay. 

Methinks I scent the morning of high madness. 
Harriet, — 

Ye angels that mew your feathers for charity, 

And line the darkness of this faithless Avorld, 

Make me as rich as is this hair-proud maid. 

Briefly, Venetia, when that sun is set 

Your star is risen. 
Venktia. — And in its sweet influence 

Draws up a sea of hearts? 
Harriet. — Be not like Absalom 

And let your hair undo you. Shall the hair 

Make war against the music in the soul ? 

What 's in the wonder of a woman's hair ? 

What 's in the color of a woman's hair ? 

Where tides the man to whom these curls are law ? 

There is no certain spider in your eye 

That you should hold this golden web so dear, 

Spun by the careless years. 
Venetia. — Your hair was ever dark, 

And has the passions in 't. 
Harriet. — 'Tis a university 

And hath an hundred scholars, Venetia, 

Wasting their revenues as they grow wiser. 

242 



Vknktia. — 

When you are angered, what a frown is here; 
When you are glad, 'tis studded with sunbeams; 
When you are studious, it is all of thought; 
When you are injured, it leaps up a crown; 
But when you 're plotting, I think on Lucifer 
And stand aloof. 

Harrikt. — A starry throne is stooping. 

Be steadfast. 

Ve;nktia. — Ah me, dear friend, this is attainment 
Of all my fondest sighs; then come, cruel shears, 
And shear away these threads of sincere gold. 

Harriet. — 

lyook now, I make a plummet of a hair 

To sound your heart and learn the depth of it. 

'Tis deeper than my thousand broken hearts — 

For I break heart with every day I live — 

Mine own, mine own; and they come easily. 

Venetia, I humbly press my suit 

Never to pause that this melodious voice 

Come unto seed of sorrow, but take the hour 

And give me leave to furnish you with means 

To school your gifted voice. 

Venktia. — You 're kind indeed. 

Harriet. — 

Still Fortune's minions are her instruments. 
Then may I be your patron and buy art 
For one of nature's stars — for such you are — 
Knowing 3^our voice and musical discourse 
Travailed through art to go upon the stage, 

243 



A star to rain influence on the arts: 
And let success — if it must be, Venetia — 
Make patronage a loan. 

Vknktia. — I dare not think on 't. 

Harriet. — O dare all thoughts, consider all deeds. 

Vknktia. — No, no. 

And yet I thank you for your kind intent. 

Harrikt. — 

Nor never dream a patron's purse string serpent 
To eat your pride away. Sure, human gifts 
Like your clear voice are not particular 
To pause at wing. Who sees a beauteous fall 
Suckling twin rainbows at her lucent breasts 
That smiled at dawn, but in him stirs a covenant 
To guard her brood, whose accident man is heir to, 
Nor craves but that her womb ne'er bear less freight ? 
Who tastes the odor of a morning rose. 
That has a memory in 't, but treads the worm, 
Nor craves but that the rose still glut on dew ? 
Who eats a rare fruit candied by the sun 
But gathers up the seed and arms the bough. 
Nor craves but that in season they bear bud? 
Who hears the sweetest singer of the field 
Make melody that 's something more than song, 
But has some hand to shield it from the thorn. 
Nor craves but that its heart be born each hour ? 
And shall it be the less with human largess 
That touches us more near? O no, sweet friend, 
Who treasures beauty treasures her own soul: 
Let other largess be not guarded less 

244 



But human more. Then may I be your patron, 
And you my nightingale. 

Venktia. — For this intent 

All thanks, heaped to my eyes; but hush, O hush ! 

'T is ill I dally with the thought of art 

Who late renounced the deed, and these sweet hopes 

Have passed for aye from the face of all but dreams. 

'T would make my father grieve in his old age 

To leave him childless, for my brother Claude 

Being a man, later or earlier, 

Must go his way, and while my father lives 

'T is my renunciation and my duty 

To minister to him. After, there 's naught. 

Harriet. — Ah ! 

Vknp:tia. — Harriet, an revoir. I have to visit many 
parishioners of my heart this afternoon : au revoir. 

Harriet.— Adieu, Venetia. Our remembrance to 
that reverened minister, your father. 

Venetia. — Father's and mine to yours. Once more, 
adieu. \_Exit. 

Re-enter Idilia. 

Harriet. — 'T is wrong, Idilia, 't is wrong — I say 't is 
wrong — wrong to do, wrong to ask : a thousand times 
wrong. Ah, but it is beautiful ! 

iDiiyiA. — What is beautiful, cousin ? 

Harriet. — Why, life, life, honors, adorations, art, self; 
yea, self. O to deny the truth of many things. 

IdiIvIA. — What would you deny the truth of? 

Harriet. —I would deny the truth of renunciation. 

245 



What is a poet but a mere child wreathing scented blos- 
soms in a scented world ! Bah ! Shall this large scope 
and faculty for truth be lost in an exquisite sonnet after 
the Italian ? I shall take to prose of large utterance and 
absolute : yea, and utter in example alwa^^s. 

Idilia. — Who fed you on shadows? 'twas not your 
cousin. 

Harriet. — Where do we get our pity, cousin? 

Idilia. — From the miserable. I pity ye. 

Harriet. — And after we have it, we spend it liberally 
on the miserable — we pity them. I pray you tell me this: 
what becomes of that woman having no trade, no 
means, no strength, when suddenly thrust on the world ? 

Idilia. — She has nowhere to lay her head. 

Harriet. — Nay, ever a woman has where to lay her 
head. 

Idilia. — Where is that? 

Harriet. — Where it ache. 

Idilia. — O stay at home ! there 's rest at home. 

Harriet. — Would not the drapery of this room, look 
you, these matchless robes that hang priceless thread by 
thread, house the houseless within the radius of a mile? 
The tranquil in heart see beauty ; I often come where I 
hear of it but cannot find it. 

Enter Mrs. Kenyan. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — 

My gracious Harriet and gentle Idilia, 
A present from your mothers in dear love, — 
Two necklaces o'er-wrought with chosen pearl. 
I'll compass you about. 

\^Clasps a 7iecklace on Idilia, then 07i Harriet. 
246 



Be ever happy, and take this to heart — 

If tQothers grow fretful and seeming harsh 

'T is not we hate our children but are old. 

I'll not stay thanks. lExit. 

Idii^ia. — So choice and appropriate gift 

Deserves my thanks. I'll search my mother out. 

Harriet. — Now I am alone. {Exit. 

Enter Mrs. Hartland. 

Now I am not. Dost know the proverb, aunt ? 
Mrs. Hartland. — Which, niece? 
Harriet. — Why, speak of marriage and a gracious 
widow appears. Alas, why do you not make some 
single gentleman happy ? 
Mrs. Harti^and. — Niece ! 

Harriet. — Shall love outlive marriage, tell me that? 
Mrs. HARTI.AND. — Niece, niece, niece ! 
Harriet. — And good, marry an elderly gentleman, 
dear my love ; I love elderly gentlemen, " sapient sirs. " 
Does not my necklace of pearl become me passing well ? 
I am a disputed national beauty. 

Mrs. Hartland. — Where is Idilia, niece? 
Harriet. — Idilia is searching for Harriet's aunt. 
Mrs. Hartland. — I thank you, niece, I will go to 
her. Pray, will you not marry Mr. Stephen Burke ? 

Harriet. — Ay, when you doff that cap and be a maid 
again. Good night, dear, good night, dear ; good night, 
good night, good night. {Sings) 

Love 's a shepherd, 
Memories his flock ; 
And its step is music. 
And its step is music, 
To his heart, 

To his heart. ^Exeunt, 

247 



ACT III. 

Scene i. — A room in Spencer's house. 

Eiiter Claudius. 
C1.AUDIUS. — 

I should have known ; there was the means to know; 

Question there was and opportunity, 

And yet I did not know, nor sought to know : 

There was but her and this great love I bear ; 

No more ; and now she is more glorious 

And I more lost. No more to dream her mine 

Through flattery of hope and fortitude 

To slave the beating tide ; no more to hope 

Yet still to remember ; no faint star to preach 

Sweet patience to a soul new hurled from bliss : 

The promised bride of Stephen Burke, my friend ! 

O, happy, happy friend, whose bride shall be 

The sweetest lady in the walks of youth ! 

And wretched me with whom all good is o'er 

And naught to come ! Then farewell, sweet Harriet, 

May love, beauty, and truth be with j^ou still ; 

One last farewell, and then in exile drear 

I take my duties up to find this life 

A fevered span betwixt thee and oblivion. 

[ Exit. 

Scene 2. — Conservator}' in Kenyon's house. 
Enter Harriet (with a harp) and Idilia. 

Harriet. — Idilia, I am your lover ; I will sing to thee. 

IDII.IA — What pretty is. 

Harriet. — Take this morning rose and wear it in 

248 



your hair ; I have a song for it. Does not my lover's 
melancholy become me very well ? 

IdiIvIA. — Why, no more than reason. 

Harriet. — O reason, reason, if I ever dwelt with you, 
it was in Erebus ! (^Sings: harp accompaniment.) 

My lyove dwells not in faint dreams 
That haunt the lover's night 
Where sleeps the silver moon; 
Her hair 's a bank of sunbeams 
Where springs a bud of light. 
The clear red rose of June: 
And sweeter far than darkling wine 
Is the love light in her eyne. 

IdIIvIA. — 

lyO, up the silence come the steps of song, — 
A maiden singing with double heart for lips; 
Sweet Harriet singing where the wild bee sips. 
Sweet Harriet singing 'neath the lilac tree 
With dulcet lips still washed in climbing dew. 

Harriet. — 

Will you still mar my poetry with your readings ? 
This was sweet Pauline, Lady of my Muse. 

IdiIvIA. — 

Beseech you, cousin, give to me the harp, 
That I may knot it with some simple spray 
Of orange, or this bloom of nameless sweet, 
Whose amour with the wanton sunbeam is 
The sweetness of the casement. 

249 



Harriet. — Take it up; 

It has a chord that 's crossed in love, heavy 
As my sad heart strung with a string untuned. 
The price of happiness is eternal pain ! 
And yet I care not to be happ}^ I; 
Happiness is a nuisance withal, Idilia. 

Idilia. — 

I think my cousin 's an aeolian harp, 

And mournfully is moved in some deep grot 

Haunted with lovers' sighs. 

Harriet. — That I am sad, 

I '11 not deny out of a truth- whole-heart, 
Making a legacy of heaviness 
Unto the gentle; that I am in love. 
You have the testimony of darling youth. 
Of manhood — and no time so barren but 
Has manhood — and moreover certain verse, 
But I have that within, Idilia, which 
Without the substance can the shadow cast. 

Idilia. — 

You speak of manhood, speak of yesterday : 
'T is gone ; the time has fallen into shapes, — 
What door the spirit made its exit at, 
I am to learn — and now there does not breathe 
An heroic man. 

Harriet. — You cannot plummet me ; 

I'm deeper than did ever woman sound. 
I'll praise no man, that thereby you may guess 
Who has made me melanchol)^ and passing strange. 



250 



Idilia. — 

I understand you not, nor will I so. 
I say that the heroic is no more, 
And for the past I live : tiptoe on story 
I watch its heroic pageantry go by. 

Harriet. — 

lyet me live for the present, not the past ; 
Nor spend the pith and marrow of my day 
Erecting from the bones of the departed, 
lyong since resolved into the milk of nature. 
Brave giants to counsel Jove at his own court ; 
Most profound sires, whose glory was wellfare. 
Whose honor unanimity, whose willing works 
Were human nature's benign and mounting stuff 
Young men almost to be linked with the Best ; 
Heavenly matrons and daughters all like Ruth ; 
And children every one a cherubin ; 
To the rude pulling down and quick reproach 
Of living mortality : and, least in that. 
Deny to-day with an Utopia future 
Wherein man's every attribute is like 
A soul of excellence and dwells harmonious ; 
For I am sure within the forward hour 
There is a glory whose like is not before. 
Whose sweetness still shall woo the tenderness 
And bards and song. 

Enter Mrs. Kenyan. 

Mrs. Kenyon.— Idilia, hence, for shame. 
Put down your harp ; attentive spirits 'tend 
The airs of your step : go into the garden, love, 

251 



Your sweet schoolfellows brush away its dews 

Thrice giving you o'er. 
Idilia. — O rarest spirits all ! {Exit. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — 

Daughter, you too are called ; then come your ways. 
Harriet. — I pray you, mother, is Stephen Burke 

within ? 
Mrs. Kenyon. — Ay, so he is. 
Harriet. — Therein I am engaged, 

And begged to be excused. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — Answered is Stephen: 

And how shall I be answered ? 
Harriet. — If truth 's a dream, 

Why, then, I am a dreamer in her dream; 

If truth is not a dream, pity me then, 

And pray it w^ere. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — Wh}^ this disgression? speak. 
Harriet. — 

That Stephen Burke is not fit company 

Forme, my father's daughter. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — Merciful heaven ! 
Harriet. — 

That Stephen Burke is not fit company 

For me, my mother's daughter. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — How speak you thus? 
Harriet. — 

As one having no purpose in her heart 

That dulls the finer edge. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — This is my daughter ! 
Harriet. — 

Pray, mother, do not bear me every day: 
252 



I am aweary that I was once born, 
And that at the beginning. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — He loves you. 

Harriet. — 

Hook not afifection to his hollow heart. 

Besides, were he as perfect as may be. 

His love infinite as the love of man, 

Unless my heart unconstrained had gone 

With his along I would not be his wife. 

I owe to you my birth and education, 

My food, my clothing and my body's needs; 

I 'm bound for the care you give and love you bear; 

But there 's a divinity greater than these. 

And can I halt with that divinity within ? 

Mrs. Kknyon. — 

Soft ! you impeach my Stephen through mere judg- 
And not report ? ^ [ment, 

Harriet. — Yes, mother. 

Mrs. Ken yon. — O such a deed 

As dulls the finer edge of human respect. 
And makes me give o'er faith. 

Harriet. — O hear me out. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — 

I will not list one plea : Stephen 's my son. 
And you have slandered and abused my son. 
Slandered his honor and abused his love. 
Slandered my honor and abused my love. 
Stephen 's my son and 3^ou have slandered him ; 
Denied the best young man in all the world. 
Who is more dear to me in his great wrong 

253 



Than he was ever in a better day. 
I leave j-ou and go to him. [EA-if. 

Harriet. — 'T is vain to talk. 

Mother will never understand ; father 
Must needs be grieved and cannot shape it else. 
Orphaned of spirit in nativity 
I still must stand alone. 

Enter Maid. 

Maid. — This for you, Miss Harriet. 

{^Gives Harriet a Card. 
Harriet. — Show Mr. Spencer here, Martha. 
Maid. — Yes, Miss Harriet. {Exit. 

Harriet. — 

What can it mean ? he seeks to speak with me ! 

To say farewell ! to-morrow leaves the city ! 

Where does he go ? will he not come again ? 

Farewell, alas ! 

E?iter Claudius and Maid. 

Claudius. — Miss Kenyon, pardon me. 

If I intrude upon a private hour 

Let that I may not see you else be pardon, 
Harriet. — Will you not be seated? [Exit Maid. 

Do you say farewell, 

Or that more kind ati revoir ? 
Claudius. — It is farewell. 

A position in the East is tendered me, 

In New York City, and, indeed, dear lady, 

I cannot choose but saj^ farewell. 
Harriet. — Ah, sir, 

We lose you without warning. 

254 



Claudius. — It must be so : 

We find friends but to lose. 

Harriet. — No ; that 's the cynic, 

And doubts the poet. He has his calling and 
His call, yet may that name not cling to you. 
Believe me, sir, mere distance never yet 
Severed true friends, and are we not twice bound — 
By friendship and by letters ? 

Claudius. — Speaking of letters, 

I trust, dear lady, every year to come. 
Or other year, to read some living work 
By Harriet Kenyon. 

Harriet. — I, by Claudius Spencer. 

Claudius. — In all my best, Miss Kenyon. 

Harriet. — As I may. 

Claudius. — 

Miss Kenyon, when that I am absent here, 
May not we correspond? I then shall write 
To one remembered not the less by me 
Than my own kin, my friend, your fiance, 
And my most dear friend, Rodman Drake. 

Harriet. — Mr. Spencer, 

It is untrue ; believe me, untrue. 

Claudius. — Beseech you ? 

Harriet. — Are you persuaded any bears to me 
The relation of betrothed ? 

Claudius. — Why, Stephen Burke. 

Harriet. — 

I do not hold him in the name of friend, 

Nor have for months. He knows my company 

255 



But through respect to others. If you have seen 
Such import in a journal, it is false ; — 
A most grievous mistake. 

Claudius. — Why, then, 

I cast an ingrate and a coward off : 
And that I speak of this is owing you. 
'T is true I read a journal to the effect ; 
And but this morning Stephen Burke expressed 
That you and he have been betrothed for years 
And are to marry in the Spring. 

Harriet. — Ofie! 

When we were children mother still was fond 

In this alliance, and I was betrothed 

Unto this man ; but this was long ago. 

And has been broken since I have attained 

The years of judgment which have found in him 

An outward excellence to an inward corruption. 

Sir, I am not betrothed at all. 

Claudius. — Thank God ! 

Harriet. — 

Claudius Spencer, if ever you loved me, 
I loved you not the less. 

Claudius. — Pardon me. 

Harriet. — Ah, sir, 

I am not blind ; I know your noble mind 
And pride that will compare your state with mine 
Unto farewell : one whose ungrasping hand 
And finer art may never come to fortune 
Nor fortune come to you : and rather, sir, 
Than mar the beauty of two lives I thus 
Have overstept one custom. 
256 



CivAUDius. — Forgive me, sweet lady ; 

I see the world where still I saw my heart. 
This must not be ; it would but wrench you from 
The beauty and the comfort of dear wealth 
Unto necessity and unhappiness, 
And make your parents chide 5^ou or debar 
Some richness of their favor to your pain. 
Farewell. 

Harriet. — And yet you love me ? 

C1.AUDIUS. — I should not. 

Harriet. — 

what to me is this unyielding wealth ; 
These needless riches; this base pageantry ; 
This light without, obscurity within ; 
These fading pearls ; these jewels in my hair 
That set my forehead in the dust and light 
The way unto farewell. 

{She plucks off her jewels and casts them down 

There let them rust ! 

1 am aweary of jewels. I love you. 

Claudius. — 
Then hence, false measure ! I will seal that bond 
Perpetual at the lips. O, gentle lady, 
There is a glory to the earth returned ; 
I loved you ever from that sweetest night 
When first we met in gracious intercourse ; 
And had my hopes proved baseless you had been 
A passionate memory about my ruin, 
Too dear to fade, too heavy to be borne. 

257 



Harriet. — 

Besides, you know, my noble Claudius, 

Since I will play the artist, I need have 

Some scope of beauty, and your love will plant 

Immortal possibilities in my heart. 

Yet fain I am the woman, first and last. 

Your loving wife who has infinite love 

To squander in your bosom, teaching you 

How that a woman moved can love. 
Claudius. — O we have met 

Upon the verge and the extreme of all 

Never to part again. O, Harriet, 

I'll cherish every bramble in the field ; 

Naught, naught so slight but your sweet face will glow 

A covenant between my heart and it 

Unto its lasting love. 
Harriet. — Have I not learned 

She dies who never loves ? Look, Claudius, 

This harp, wreathed with a spray of fragrant orange. 

The sweetest buds that ever blew to heaven, 

How happily prefigures our happy love. 

Long lasting as our lives. 
C1.AUDIUS. — Undeserving that I am. 

Harriet. — 

Far, far too worthy for unworthy me : 

I' m but myself. 
C1.AUDIUS. — O, Harriet of Harriets ; 

Deserving all a lover sighs his love, 

And poets win from the infinite heart. 

Darling, my love is almost blasphemy ; 

258 



You are so pure, so sweet, so delicate, 
So radiant in your glow of virgin fire ; 
I all a-stain and muddied in the world : 
Yet trust me, sweet, this hour shall be a wing 
Whereby I climb into a clearer air 
Never to be sullied more. 
Harriet. — O know your I^ove, 

Who knows you' re honorable as grace is wide, 
And wide as her allegiance. 
C1.AUDIUS. — My dear heart, 

In this uncorrupted glass you hold to me 
My disproportion shows great indeed, and I, 
For your sweet sake, would be that fair proportion 
For which I strive. I shall not say farewell, 
It were a waste of sorrow. 
Harriet.— O be it so : 

And where you are I am beside you still, 
Thridding the eye of dark and cropked death. 

Enter Maid. 
But look where comes my maid. What do you bring ? 
Maid.— A message, Miss Harriet : the messenger, a 
little girl, waits to be answered. {^Gives Harriet a paper. 

Harriet. — 'Tis very strange what is written here. 
Where is this child ? 

Maid.— I seated her in the hall. Miss Harriet. Shall 
I dismiss her ? 

Harriet. — No : go before : I will come to her. 

{^Exit Maid. 
Claudius. — I trust you have received no ill news. 

259 



Harrikt. — 'Tis strange, 'tis strange, 'tis ver}^ 
strange ; yet I am persuaded to respect it to our instant 
parting. 

Dear Claudius, when evening folds the leaf, 
I pray you come again, and I will make 
Music for my betrothed, whose gladness is 
A twice told tale. 
C1.AUDIUS. — Sweet Harriet, I will come. {Exeunt. 

Scene j. — A hill overlooking the Golden Gate. 

Enter Drake and Venetia. 

Drakk. — 

IvCt's pause, Venetia ; this is the top 

And crowning climb. When June is come again, 

We follow in the flight of yon clear sun 

That still in glory goes upon its dawn. 

Which, going 'fore us still, will deep inlay 

The liquid avenue of our bridal journey 

With panels of bright gold. O, dear my love. 

Your look is like the West when it is lit 

By yon bright star, in liquid ecstasy 

Low hung o'er the Golden Gate, and these sweet locks 

Have in them that divinity to make 

The sunset eloquent long lingering here. 

Vknktia. — 

That you are honest I in part believe. 

Yet swear you paint my beauty o'er again. 

Still, I am of a nature that does believe 

'T is not what should not be, and I'll believe 

You paint me true who should not paint me false. 

Drake. — Doubt me, Venetia? 

260 



VknKTia. — I doubt, — condemn me 

Yet understand me, — I still doubt your love, 
And I will make a plummet of pure doubt 
And sound your heart. 

Drake. — O sound my heart with faith, 

That has in it a gracious memory, — 
Which, pardon me, I mean not to discover : 
Yon white sail ripened it. Do you recall 
A day upon these waters, when our yacht 
Dropped idle in the warm still tide beneath 
Yon cliff? a day I was a part with and 
An evening. 

Venktia. — Trust me, Rodman, I recall 

The very cliff that, jutting o'er its base, 
Wore rough hewn in its front a human face ; 
The genius of the overhanging rock. 
And guardian of the Gate. 

Drake. — This should teach us, 

Before man was his image was a piece 
Of nature and mortality, silent along 
This aeolian shore ; mutely prophesying 
With brow of stone lifted to parting day. 
The coming of that multitudinous soul 
That 'd pull down lightning from the thunder-rack, 
And, enamoured of the zenith, would leap upward 
And suckle at her suns. 

Venetia. — O wonderful ! 

Was human face ne'er new beneath the sun ? 
But this word " faith " and 's gracious memory. 

Drake. — Pardon me, Venetia. 

261 



Vknetia. — Not for a sea of grace. 

We are such stuff as memory, and Rodman 

I never may possess till I possess 

His memories. 
Drakk. — Ay, tender me your memories. 

Venetia, let your memory play the diver. 

And from the sunny sea of past events 

Win me some precious jewel. 
Venktia. — O 'tis but little 

Which I have asked, and when that little 's mine 

Mayhap I'll hang some jewels in your ear, 

Fond stones, which shall become you passing well. 
Drakk. — 

Have me, Venetia, have my memories. 

But come, that I discover this to you 

On the sunny beach wedded to wave and shore. 

Sweet spot, salt wdth the West, 't will gild a tale 

And make clear silence eloquent as love. 

Spirit of memorj^ come 

And w^alk beside us down unto the sea. \^Exeunt. 

Scene 4. — A room. 
Rose (on a bed) and Nurse discovered. 

NuRSK. — Hush ! when the lady comes — lay back once 
more — 
I '11 turn you to her face. Hush ! do not speak. 
(Aside) Poor thing, what can it be hangs on her soul 
And stays its flight ? The lady will not come; 
Great ladies do not look on stricken things. 
Hush, hush ! 
Ros:e. — O lift me up : the stairs, the stairs. 

262 



NuRSK. — Hush ! 'tis not time. 
Ros:^. — O lift me up : the door ; 

I see her there. 

Enter Child, Edmund and Harriet (veiled). 

NuRS^. — Kind lady, have you come ? 

I am the nurse. She wears her heart quite out. 

RoSK. — O come more near. 

Harriet. — What would you say to me? 

Rose. — 

Is this the lady ? Let me see your face. 

I know her face. 
Harriet. — {Lifti?ig her veil.) Yes, strangely, I am she. 

Why do you send for me? I know you not: 

And yet I listen. Can you speak right on ? 

Rose.— 

let us be alone; I dare not speak 
With any by. 

Harriet. — She begs you both retire. 

1 pray you pass into the other room ; 
But leave the door unclosed. 

Nurse. — She 's part delirious, 

I think, my lady; and I nurse her not 
For any price, for she has naught on earth 
But cureless troubles. 

Harriet. — She motions you away. 

Nurse. — 

And, lady, her father eaten of a cancer 
About the heart, and cannot buy her medicine. 
You see, 'tis a pitiful case. 
263 



Edmund. — I like not that : 

But I must be content. {Edmu7id mid Nurse retire,') 

Harriet. — You may speak now. 

What is't you have to say? Yes, speak right on. 

Rose. — 

O, lady, I am dying — cannot live 

To see again my little babe that 's dead : 

I'm dying, and forgive him who made me 

This ruin you look on from a happy girl 

That loved and knew not what it was to doubt 

Until he turned me out into the streets — 

And I was deathly sick, and my father found me, 

And knew not face from face, for all was dark : — 

For I was not his lawful wife , but Oh ! 

When my poor babe was born if I had had 

A little comfort 'twould be at my breast ; 

But the father laughed at me. 

Harriet.— Alas, alas ! 

Rose. — 

O, lady, I am low-laid in my grave, 
But I forgive him all the wrong he did. 
O save him ! tell him to rise up and flee ; 
IvCt not my father take his life. O speak ! 

Harriet. — 

Rest now a while and when you can speak on 
Tell me who 'tis has wronged you thus. O rest ! 

Rose. — 

O, kind, kind lady, when my father learned 
He was to marrj^ you, — O please stoop down ! — 
To kill him, and before my God he will 
Unless you warn him. I am dying now : 
264 



when I looked upon my dead babe's face 

1 could not hate him more. 
Harrikt. — O speak his name ! 

RoSK.— 

I^ook ! I have worn it ever since that day 

He promised to marry me. You do not look : 

It is his ring. 
Harriett. — O me, I gave it him, 

And he did lose 't. His name is Stephen Burke? 

O speak ! 
RoSK. — Stephen Burke ! Stephen ! Stephen ! 

O save me ! O I die ! [Falls back. 

Harriet. — You heavens look down, 

And pluck some fleeting comfort to her heart, 

Poor wretched piece of marred humanity. 

O shame, shame on the difference of debt 

Making the innocent bear all ! O, God ! 

Shall women suffer this? The dead are living. 

The living are dead ! 

\^Re-enter Edmund and Nurse. 

See, see, O see ! 
RoSK. — (^Arishig 07i the bed) I die, I die ! 

my mother ! wife ! God ! ^Dies. 
Edmund. — 'Tis good you go now. 
Nursk. — 'Tis just as I expected ; she is gone. 
Harriet. — 

Yes, she is dead. I pray j'ou go before; 

1 'd be alone with her a little while. 

Edmund. — We '11 wait upon you in the entry way. 

[Exeunt Edmund and Nurse. 

265 



Harriet. — 

O now I look on death ! 'Tis this to die ! 
O God, is 't this to live ? Then death is best ! 
No, no, no, no, I '11 not believe it is. 
Doubting the mortal avouch. Poor testimony 
That justice is a dream, may perfect rest 
Raze out what 's written too harshly on your brow: 
May it write other matter in that book 
Such as a father might find comfort in. 
Why am I here ? 

Ah, disdeluding truth, you have marred all ! 
No, I '11 not warn that ruffian Stephen Burke 
Against the father's hand; but rather may 
The redounding vengeance strike ere words can spring. 
This has he done, and may he follow his works. 
For this polluted ring fallen from her hand, 
The sea shall hide it ere the night is come 
And hide no deeper shame. Farewell, O farewell. 
Your age was on earth, may your youth in heaven 
dwell. lExit. 

Scene 5. — A club room. 
Enter Todd and Two Poets. 

First Poet. — Come, come, Spencer keeps no appoint- 
ment here. 

Todd. — Gentlemen, if I wrong you may I make a 
bottle of a wrong. The excellent Claudius was to meet 
me here an half hour since, and, though he comes not, 
yet have patience. In the interim I'll discover an Alp 
of policy in my eye of State and prove myself the father 
of an illustrious line of American poets and prologue to 

266 



the palmy day of arts. Look you, I am tendered by the 
Administration — God save the colonels ! — an office i' the 
municipality, and thereby hangs appointments. 

Second Pokt. — God help the office! the ballot forbid ! 

Todd. — Go to, this was no ballot, this was an appoint- 
ment per se. 

FiRvST Poet. — No : and if it had been, it had been a 
ballot o' tears. Well, you can now keep a coach and six 
with a poet for tiger ; the first gentleman of America. 

Todd. — Friends, a man's opinions should be his ap- 
pointments that his principles survive, since there are 
honorable men in all opinions and parties. 

First Poet. — Ay, there 's the salt of it. 

Second Poet. — True, the devil hath opinion. 

Todd. — O, my sweet friends, to-day the devil is not 
even painted. Hark ye, gentlemen, at each ear — "pulls" 
are short and life is long. 

First Poet. — Excellent, i' faith. 

Second Poet. — Good, good : the tune the old poU- 
tician died on. 

Todd. — Gentlemen, were I a Republican, a Democrat, 
a Populist o' the Socialistic Party, or one of these who 
builds his hopes on almighty returns, I were not with 
you this afternoon ; were I a party man I were about my 
party's business. No, sweet friends, I am a poet, a 
minstrel who was wont to harp his harp in heaven's eye, 
and poets shall be my appointees. 

Second Poet. — The poet in politics : well. 

Todd. — Look you, here is the list of the seven first 
poets — this is not grammar, friends, but human nature — 

267 



thought most deserving to act as my deputies. Shall I 
appoint these ? have you better ? do you assent ? 

First PoKT. — Come, the list. {Reads) Roger Cam- 
bridge, Cashier. I know him, Philip; a white-haired 
elderly gentleman, hale and hearty, looking forward to 
when he shall be a boy again. 

Second PoKT. — Honor him; he is a high priest of 
God's English. 

First Poet. — {Reads) Robert Queerquill, Clerk. Alas! 
poor fellow, he has learned a bad name is the only thing 
that can be in two places at the same time. 

Todd. — Except a good name, and an illustrious name, 
like mine. He wrote that rare epitaph for the sot when 
he ran a church in Calaveras. Soft ! let me see, let me 
see, — He is dead, pity him not — yes — 

He is dead ; 
Pity him not ; 
Death can long be borne. 
He is dead ; 
lyCt him rot ; 
Stranger, do not mourn : 
He 's doing his duty now 
Is this sot, 
God wot ; 
And the whole duty of a dead man 
Is to rot. 

Ha ! I wish I had written that. 
Second Poet. — Honor him. 

Todd. — He cannot be a bad man at heart ; he loves a 
Welsh rarebit. But, gentlemen, I have reserved the 

268 



worthiest place for vSpencer and trust he will honor me 
with an acceptance, and, while you study this milky way 
of poets, I will pace softly towards his home and bring 
him on his way. The spirit moves me. 

First Pokt. — We stay his pleasure. {^Exit Todd. 

Come to the sideboard and toast him to the very toast ; 
the Poet loyal. {Exeunt. 

Scene 6. — Parlors in Kenyon's house. 

Enter Mrs. Kenyan and Burke. 
BURKK. 

Madam, the mind that made your daughter great 
Will surely keep her true. 
Mrs. Khnyon. — Stephen, my son, — 
For, sir, you are my son, being so like 
Him that is dead, — yet to a mother's heart 
Her child is never dead : and I have learned 
Not to forget but to remember with 
A tempered heart : being so like, I say, 
Plim that is dead ; and since our nature leaps 
To grapple to our heart that issue which 
Has attribute and part with some dear loss, 
I call you son. And once more, yet once more 
I call you son, in that from childhood forth, 
Even to the transformation of Harriet, 
My daughter was betrothed so unto you 
That when her father looked upon your loves 
And saw your budding future, he would cry 
It made contemplation young in thrall 
Of elder winter : and take comfort, sir. 
When Harriet looks upon our grief awhile 
She'll look upon her duty. 
269 



BuRKK. — Herein you cheer 

The heaviest hour that I have ever known. 
Quietness, yet without peace ; ease, without rest ; 
Wealth, without beauty; affection, without hope ; 
Rank, without love ; truth, without inspiration ; 
This, madam, is the charm which keeps back death, 
For ever death abhors the miserable. 
Nor night has set division ' tween my days, 
Nor day between my nights ; believe me, still 
The nights are troubled with the troubled days, 
The days are troubled with the troubled nights. 
Yet from your counsel and your shrewd insight 
I pluck some hope, and hope 's a kind of work 
Unto my saving. 

Mrs. Kbnyon. — Then be resolved : in thought 
There's a divinity that sways the minds 
Of those we come in touch with to our likes 
And our dislikes ; and, as the running tide 
Bears in its current all that comes in touch 
Which does not overpeer its strength of flood, 
So our belief sweeps on another's heart 
And bears it in its current to our ends 
A thousand times repeated. 

BuRKK. — I in part believe 

That I again shall win your daughter's hand; 
Nor doubt shall keep the watches of the night, 
Nor be a sentinel o'er my inner heart 
That it may never pass into the light 
Without a challenge. 

270 



Mrs. Kknyon. — 'Tis well, 'tis very well, 
Exceeding well ; and cast it out at once — 
The commune of the heart unto itself 
Is half our destiny. 

Burke. — Though love, unrequited, 

Has ceased to be an inspiration and 
Has become a curse, I yet will not despair. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — 

And I have one more comfort : in idleness 

The mind begets strange brood, which few will own 

At later time, and Harriet is idle. 

Or has been idle, and 'tis this that gives 

Denial and crooked motion ; but henceforth 

Idle she shall not be, and this unthreads 

These heavy times. 

BuRKK. — Now truth 's a precious jewel 

That fable gave to fact, since with the truth 
Your daughter will return into the light: 
And I, whom you call son, out of dear love 
Fain call you mother : one who has no kin; 
Yet in my wife the dusty vault shall gape 
And give me back my dead. 

Enter Mrs. Hart land and Kenyan. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — Husband, Albertine, 

Let 's wrestle pleasure from the forward instant. 
Pull down our daughters from their studious star, 
Unroof these thrice-walled students that they tread 
A measure in the circle of delights. 
They hang like mirrors reflecting all they front, 
Enjoying naught. 

271 



Mrs. Hartland. — Harriet is returned. 
She will be here anon. 

Enter Idilia. 

Idilia comes. 

Kknyon. — She looks unwell: I think it good she travel. 

Idilia. — Who cries out "travel" to a soul at peace? 

Kknyon. — 

You 've put the day to the decision, niece. 
Hence, you shall travel and o'er Harriet 
Commission have to make her such a mate 
As broke from your society this hour 
And took my heart with envy. 

Idilia. — That 's the universities. 

Whither young men and women flock to drink 
The milk of arts and eat Promethean fire, 
And over and beyond the intellect 
Instruct the body in all the throws and kicks 
That find it true and leave it benefited. 

Enter Harriet. 

Ken YON. — Daughter, will you not play for us some 
favorite and brighter composition ? 

BuRKK. — (^Approaching with music) Miss Kenyon, the 
privilege of this song in accompaniment. 

[ Harriet regards him with scorn: 
hesitates: quits the room. 

She is unwell. Sir, I will take my leave. 

I deeply tender her apology: 

Bespeak me thus. S^Exit. 

272 



Idilia. — O, believe me, she is not well: 

I say to you she said she was not well. 

How pale she is. [E:vit. 

Kknyon. — Sickness that stoops so low 

Ivies deep. [E^riL 

Mrs. Kknyon. — Ah me ! sister, what shall I do? 

I had a daughter; have I buried her ? 

Search out her grave that I may weep there. 

O come away: all 's lost but motherhood. ^Exeunt. 

Scene 7. — A street. 
Enter Claudius and Drake : Curtis at a distance. 

C1.AUDIUS. — 

Stay, Rodman, look where Curtis is addressed : 
He shall with us along to Dugal Todd, 
That sleek-headed, affable, and portly man 
Who distinguishes literature from a handsaw. 
Why he has summoned me, I take no thought ; 
Suffice I am denial-dumb to-day. 
Question me not ; I rather show my heart 
Than speak what language it has fed upon. 
Drake:. — Give me your hand, Claudius, brother. I 
trust it is even so with you as it is with me. What ! 
have I moved you ? Nay, leave off wringing my hand 
that I wring 3^ours, since I am indeed your brother, hav- 
ing won your sweet sister, Venetia. 
Claudius. — 

You wrap my thoughts up in a deeper maze. 
O be it so. 
Drake. — Heartily, heartily. 

273 



CivAUDius. — Venetia ! 

I can lend the fondest lover art 

To praise Venetia ; but that 's your pleasure, 

And I'll mark you straight? Then must you speak 

of one 
Who has more heart than art, not that her art is less 
But that her heart is more. 
Curtis. — Spencer, farewell : 

Public report bespeaks you quit the West. 

1 take the personal way to say farewell. 
New York, I think. 

C1.AUDIUS. — So once I thought myself ; 

But new occasions old affections warp. 
A farewell not to purpose ; I'm not hence 
Upon so instant note : delayed or over-ruled. 
Come, go with us and waste a merry hour. 

A Funeral Train approaches. 
Curtis. — 

Forbear : let's pause the passing of this train 

That draws apace. 

Drakk. — Within the forward hour, 

Yon hearse will rattle o'er the stony street 
In harsh return, and he that sleeps within, 
Deaf to all languages beneath the sun 
That not the motion of the linguist's tongue 
Can stir one jot, inclines toward the worm 
In dank oblivion. 

Claudius. — May I be cremated ! 

Why should a man thus lay him down and rot ; 
To be the food of vermin and a comb 
For thridding worms: this express tenement 
274 



And form of alabaster to fall into 

A loathsome mound : this top and arch of thought, 

The soul's high crescent, to be pulled quite down 

And dragged into the mire of decay. 

That not the rudest mind can glance his end 

Nor smother up the heart : this tabernacle 

Of largeness and of pride to be up-dug, 

And oft our nature's frame be jarred about 

With no more concern than the very beast's. 

O fie ! my I respect myself in death, 

And from my derogate ashes never spring 

An insult to the spirit. 

Curtis. — This was a man 

Who was a study and a mystery. 
Living, he thought to communicate with the dead, 
And climb into another atmosphere, 
lyeaving all untenanted the natural frame 
Of any reasonable and conscious soul. 
Which life speaks for a mounting spirit and 
A peep beyond philosophy and art. 

C1.AUDIUS. — 

Why cannot man commune with the departed — 
I^eap o'er his grosser nature, spirit-thwarted, 

'erpeer the level of this wholesome air. 

And, in some world to which the dead are heir. 
Hold commune, dipt about by golden fire. 
With souls whom here from earth did late aspire. 

Enter Burke. 
BURKK. 

1 '11 accompany 3^ou and stuif the hollow hour 
To some true shape. 

275 



Enter Livingstone and Todd. 

Livingstone:. — Turn, Stephen Burke, turn 
And look on death ! 

\_He draws a pistol on Burke. Todd grapples 
with him : the pistol explodes : Claudius falls. 

C1.AUDIUS. — O, pluck it out, pluck it out ! 

Drake. — 

For God's sake grapple with him ; he is mad. 

Take 'way that pistol. Help me, friends : look here, 

Spencer is shot ! 
Todd. — I have him, gentlemen. 

Budge now, you scoundrel, and let Hell hold 's peace, 

I'll not ! 
Curtis. — Quick, some one bring a surgeon here; 

Spencer is shot. 
Drake. — Look up: where is it, Claude? 

What man, no blood ? then never think it : courage, 

We'll help you straight. 
Claudius. — O, I die, I die, Rodman. 

Justice ! \_Dies. 

Drake. — Before my God, Spencer is killed. 

Brother, look up : it cannot work so fast. 

Where are you shot ? ha ! in the temple : aye. 

I say he 's killed ; are you all deaf? 
Todd. — Tut, man, 

No more than reason. 

Enter aji Officer. 

Come, sir, here is the man. 
He 's but a rag. 

276 



Offickr— Hold back his hands. 

{^Manacles Livingstone. A crowd gathers. 
Enter three Officers. 
Call a patrol to the station. \^Exit an Officer. 

lyook to the man there. What, dead ? 
Curtis. — I think so. 

Drake. — Ay, shot in the temple : look. 

Come, help me, friend : Curtis, go bring a coach. 

{^Exit Curtis. 
Before my God, I cannot think him dead ; 
It is too sudden for the soul of man. 
Why in God's name came you before him, Burke ? 
Would I were dabbled here. 
BuRKK. — Tush, he is mad. 

I know him not. 
Todd. — He 's killed a better man, 

Offickr. — Who witnessed this shooting? Mr. Burke? 
Mr. Todd? {To Drake) this gentleman here? Answer all 
who witnessed. 
BURKK.— I. 
Todd.— And I. 
Drake. — And I. 

Re-enter Curtis, with coach. 
And he, Curtis. 
Officer. — Who else ? 

Burke. — This is all : the streets were empty. 
Drake. — Make way there, let us pass; I '11 take him 
home. Help, Curtis, help to lift him in the coach. 

Officer. — (7<? an Officer) Mount the coach, and make 

your report. \^Claudius is lifted into the coach: Drake and 

Curtis enter: an Officer mounts the coach: 
the coach is driven off. 

277 



Offickr. — ( To a7i Officer) 

Here on this side ; we '11 lead him to the station. 

Gentlemen, you shall be summoned. 
BuRKK. — Go on before. 

I think he 's a lunatic, so have a care. 
Todd.— 

On to the tanks, McPherson; we '11 follow after. 

He '11 answer for it; while there 's rope there 's reason. 
Officer. — Back, back, back ! 

[Exeunt Officers with Livingstone : crowd follow, 

Todd.— 

I tell you, Burke, that man is stricken dumb 

That did the shooting. 
Burke. — Do you believe so? ha ! 

Todd.— 

Very like, very lik:e ; but froth will answer 3'ou. 

Well, let it go; the law 's the criminal's best friend. 

Efiter Burrill. 

BurrilIv. — What 's that forward, Mr. Todd, — an arrest? 
Burke. — Are you a reporter ? 

Todd. — Ay, to his faults. One I brought up from a 
boy ; a politician should see to these things. 
Burke. — Come, go with us, we witnessed this. 
Todd. — Now, Burrill, every man for himself and truth 
take the hindmost. Come, sir, no lies, no lies ; he was 
my friend — and I was unworthy him. 

Whaur 's Claudie Spencer noo? Before my God, 
Though I live out the six-score years of man, 
I shall not see so piteous fall again. 
Come softly on. ^Exeunt. 

278 



Scene 8. — A room in Kenyon's house. 

Enter Harriet. 
Harriet. — 

O, you just heavens, have I wrought honorable 

In keeping silent that this Stephen Burke 

Have judgment meted him? O compass me, 

You that my steps thus far have led aright, 

And direct me still. 

O what a piteous unhappy ruin was there 

When this most trusting woman was betrayed ! 

And shall that faithless ruffian live on 

To blast the weak, and not one make redress ? 

He did these things — and do I know he did ? 

How do I know but she has spoken false, 

Or she was but an animal, a beast ? 

How do I know which is the guilty one 

That I should seal my lips till vengeance strike ? 

Mercy ! I know not what it is I do :^ 

I'll make myself a guilty instrument 

To a guilty deed : and one may blab these things. 

And through my silence drag my father down 

And my poor mother ; bruise my Claudius ; 

And turn my life to outward hideousness. 

O now I see all silence here is foul : 

Then up, give warning, and, if no evil fall, 

IvCt this delay strike at my single self. 

And I'll pluck its sharpest thorn unto my heart 

And suffer wisely what I unwisely wrought. {Exit. 



279 



ACT IV. 

Sce7ie I. — A room in Spencer's house. 
Ent^r Spencer and Venetia. 

Vbnktia. — O, dear my father, is your sight restored? 

SpKnckr. — 

A}', even as the coming on of day 

After thick night ; at first the grey approach, 

And then the sliver-laced breaking, then clear dawn. 

And last the bright consummate noon. 

Vknetia. — O heavenly powers ! 

Spknce^r. — 

I see you with embraces, 3^et in form 
As clear and level as the general eye. 

Vkne^tia. — 

lyOok, sir, where John is walking in the garden: 
I '11 call him hither; 3^ou will know his face. 
Though mine but feelingly, for I have grown 
Quite from that earlier image which was wont 
To fill your eye. S^Exit. 

Spe^nckr. — She has the mother's brow, 

The self-same brow that I resigned to Death 
When I was dragged beneath the wheels of dust; 
And I am as new risen from the dead 
And look upon the mother with the Blest. 
Heaven has heard my prayer, and chiefly Him 
Whose sorrow was the gladness of the world, 
Who is my Captain, and whose faith has been 
The only manna in the wilderness. 

280 



Re-enter Venetia with John. 

John. — Brother Paul, can you see me? 
Spkncer. — 

Are you near or far? But let me touch your face, 

That I may feel 'tis not a stranger : so. 

It is my brother, and our hair is white. 
John. — 

Sweet niece, your father has regained his sight. 

My hair is white. 
Venejtia. — O, it were brave indeed 

Were Claudius here. Yet I may search him out. 

\Exit. 
Spencer. — My cot is simple but my age is free. 

Enter a Maid. 

Maid. — O, sir, here 's a gentleman to speak with you. 

\_Exit. 
Enter Drake. 

Drake. — 

Pardon me, sir, I have brought Clauiiius home 

For he is hurt. 
Spencer. — My son is hurt? 

Drake. — O grievously hurt. 
John. — Alas ! where is he? 

Drake. — Hush ! he may die. 
Spencer. — My son may die? 

Bring me to him. 
Drake. — Sir, he is dying. 

Spencer. — Dying ! 
Drake. — O think of Venetia, 

And hide your grief. 
Spencer. — He 's dead. 

281 



Drake. — Even so. 

I may go now. I pray you, look to him; 

We '11 bring him here. \_Exit. 

Spence^r. — He tells me my son is dead: 

He tells me my son Claudius is dead: 

Make way, I '11 go unto him ; I can see. 

Re-enter Drake with Curtis and an Officer bearing Claudius. 

Drake. — 

Hush ! he is dead. He died by accident, 
And never better fell. We were with him, 
My friend and I, conversing in the street 
On many things, and sir, when Claudius fell 
It touched us near. 

John. — Brother, hear this young man, 

You have yet one sweet branch to droop with you. 
How did he die ? by accident, yo\x say ? 
I'd tell him all. 

Drake. — Sir, even thus it was : 

Claudius, my friend, and I stood in the street 

Conversing, when to us came up a friend, 

A friend to us all, who was no sooner by 

But from behind a madman shot at him 

And killed your son. This man is held for compt. 

Our tale is brief, our loss is without end ; 

Yet may 't remember the living. 

Spencer. — He is dead ! 

O, Claudius, my son, my son Claudius, 
I builded heaven's glory on stairs of sand ! 
O God, here was a son born for the race 
His father's still prophetic heart would run ; 
282 



He had the mind and the compulsive fires 

To shape the heart into the Uving truth 

That this recorded and peculiar dust 

Go upright in its passage; but fleeting, crooked 

mischance 
Has reaved the light of him and him of light. 
He was the very purpose of my age, 
And he is dead ! {Exit. 

Drakk. — Beseech you, look to him; 

He treads the verge : and let his woe not reach 
Your gentle niece. {Exit John. 

lyCt 's bear him thither, friends: 
Yon room is not so open to the hall. 
And leads where uninterrupted we may speak. 
The sister must be told, and to that end 
I'll call a lady from the neighbor- way : 
' Tis fit a woman tread these steps with her. 
Once more take up the body. 

\Exeunt, bearing off Claudius. 

Scene 2. — A room in Kenyon's house. 

E7iter Harriet. 
Harrikt. — 

'Tis five o'clock; he has my warning now; 
And for my own pride and his dear release 
He knows not who has warned him of this man, — 
Only that he is warned and has a care. 
But O, my fearful heart, in the interim 
From four to five o'clock what accident 
May have befallen his untutored steps. 
Which might not be had I disarmed the father. 
283 



lyaughter has been a knell unto my soul, 

[ The clock strikes five. 
Hark ! that strikes from heaven ; he is warned. 

Enter Idilia. 

Idilia, is 't you? 
Idilia. — O, Harriet, sweet cousin, 

Why are j^ou strange and undivulged of heart ; 

A walking mystery ? I will kiss you for it. 
Harriet. — I pray you, touch me not. 
Idilia. — Where have you been 

This heavy hour? 
Harriet. — An hour is very brief : 

'Tis scarce an inch upon 5^on ancient piece 

That strikes the fearful moments. In so brief span 

Naught of great import could take place, think you ? 
Idilia. — 

Cousin, I think — and this that 3^ou are strange — 

To-day is not the morrow of yesterday 

But quite apart. 
Harriet. — It is a day, Idilia, 

Without a morrow or a yesterday. 
Better Mrs. Kenyan. 

Idilia. — Dear aunt, what are 3^our thoughts ? 
Mrs. Kenyon. — I think strange thoughts 

Whilst you on old affections dwell. 
Harriet. — O, my mother, 

Why do you look so moved upon me ? speak ! 

And talk so strange ? Has aught befallen ? O speak ! 
Mrs. Kenyon. — They have not told you — no? 
Harriet. — Have told me what? 

2S4 



Mrs. Kknyon. — 

What if I told that that noble gentleman, 
Who but this hour went bitter from my door 
That Harriet denied him courtesy 
That 's shown unto the meanest servant here : 
What if I told that such an one as this 
Is now low-laid beneath the linen mound, 
Killed by a madman in the public streets — 
What if I told you this ? 
Harrikt.— O no, no, no ! 

I will fall down and never rise again. 
Making a shroud out of my whitened hair. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — 

It is a bait that but the guilty take. 
O Harriet loves Stephen, yet she will deny it. 
It was a custom when I was a maid 
To still deny the lover and his love, 
Until the wedding bells rang out the lie 
So full of guiltlessness and bashful v^ays. 
O ho, I told your father that your love 
Is boundless as romance, and that our child 
Is different as two books from the rude world. 
Harrikt. — He is not dead ? not hurt? 
Mrs. Kknyon.— No, be assured : 

Though foul attempt was made upon his life. 

Forgive me, daughter, that I moved you thus. 

Now will I serve you Paris, Harriet, 

Upon a golden plate for your bridal feast. 

But soft ! I sent for Stephen to attend 

That all my household bespeak congratulations 

In his escape. 

285 



Harrikt. — O, I'll congratulate him. 

Ay, I'll congratulate him. 

Mrs. Kbnyon. — There Harriet spoke. 
Yet 't was exceeding sad what did befall : 
Still all must die : death hangs upon our lids 
And mars the sight ; it weighs upon our dreams, 
For dreams also have their mortality, 
A toad that croaks in every living spring ; 
Yet, since it is a mystery, our hearts 
Not being assured should incline to beauty 
Weighing the hope above the doubt, believing 
That hope has still some soul of prophecy. 

Harrikt. — What do you mean? 

Mrs. Kenyon. — Your father brings report. 
Which is as true as it is pitiful. 
That the bullet that this unknown madman aimed 
At Stephen Burke, O still unhappily. 
Struck in the temple Claudius Paul Spencer ; 
And he is fallen never to rise again. 

Idilia. — O look at Harriet ! \_Harriet swoons. 

Mrs. Ki^nyon. — I'm fond and foolish 
To follow thus so sudden in my tale : 
My heated brain o'er leaps the cooler period. 
The joy, and then the heaviness of grief. 
Has all forespent her, even as it should. 

IDII.IA. — 

Look where she stirs again : she will revive. 
I'll chafe her hands. O, Harriet, look up : 
Wherefore, sweet cousin, have you sunk so low? 
Harriet. — {Reviving^ 

What was 't you said to me that I am here? 
286 



Idilia. — Claudius Spencer is killed. 

Harriet. — Ay ; so I thought. 

Claudius Spencer is dead. He was a man 

Greater than all his works. Some men twice die, 

Die in their self and in unfinished works, 

And oft the works mortality cuts off 

Is the greater death ; but here a man has died. 

Now I stand. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — 

I'll fetch some cordial; you are as pale — 

Harriet. — As death. Stay, who will comfort Venetia ? 

Mrs. Kenyon. — I know not who. 

Harriet. — This grief may be her death. 

Besides this is report, which I will doubt 
Till I have spoken with Venetia. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — Be over-ruled; your health is very dear. 

Harriet. — I '11 go to her in human sympathy. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — As you will. {^Exeunt. 

Scene 3. — An ante-room to police station. 
Enter Todd and Burrill. 

Todd. — A plague on your trade, Burrill, a plague I 
say. May not a poet and a gentleman grapple with a 
lunatic o' the old school, but a legion o' straining lead- 
snappers, I mean reporters, sweep down on him as though 
he had the North Pole in his breeches pocket? An' had 
I been lean I had been an agitator. 

BuRRiLi.. — Why, you heathen barbecue. 

Todd. — Heathen barbecue ! 

BuRRiiyiy. — Ay, sir, all flesh and no grace. 

287 



Todd. — Come, Burrill, there are times when hell is 
sacred. Why, what idle work is a man that an ounce of 
lead is gross enough to thrust him out o' question ! what 
trifles raise him to eternity ! O frailty, frailty, I 'gin to 
think there 's vanity even in ofiice. 

Burrill. — Held you any opinion to the contrary? 

Todd. — Faith, Death is cheap enough to entertain; but 
I flattered myself there was red tape in office to make him 
think twice before checkmating a politician. Now I see 
something rotten lies that way. 

Burrill. — Sure, the poets lie that way, and there 's 
living in that lie — for the poets. 

Todd. — I hate a punster, and a poor punster is an 
abomination. 

Burrill. — All your great men have made puns in 
their day, and poor ones at that. 

Todd. — Zounds, to emulate the bum o' greatness to be 
accredited with its better parts. 

Enter a Reporter. 

Reporter. — These are the times that try the press and 
reporters. He is cut off" of all tongues ; language sleeps 
and will not be waked. 

Todd. — Yerk it in the ribs. 

Reporter. — This lunatic who killed Spencer has 
fallen dead of heart disease, or drink, or what you will, 
as man proposes and wealth disposes. Yet the reason of 
this shooting shall be sifted, and if it be discovered the 
newspapers will discover it ; the law is mighty but the 
newspaper prevails. Get you in, Burrill; I'd rather be 
a stale fly between the sheets of an old Dutch calendar 

288 



than report for your paper. Why, man, there 's columns 
in it. {Exit. 

Todd. — I would confound him were not curses money 
to you newspaper men. 

Enter Burke and an Officer. 

Is he dead, Burke ? 

BURKK. — Ay. 

Todd. — Why the devil did I send for Spencer to come 
to my rooms that he pass the way to his death. O o£5ce, 

appointment, O politics, where are your honors ? where 
is your light? But zounds, Burke, the madman called 
on your soul and had I not passed near to meet Spencer 
why you were now somewhere in the fifth dimension. I 
marred him and saved you, and my conscience stands in 
the difference of worth. You owe me a tombstone, Burke. 

BuRKK. — That this old man was other than mad in 
attempting my life, which his unbroken^ silence testifies 
to, is a matter a dog writ, a fool published, and asses 
quote. 

BuRRii.1.. — Here 's a large head indeed; here 's a 
chained scoop; here 's the Press in breeches; here 's a 
magnifico who can edit a newspaper on sight. 

BuRKK. — Go to, go to, you are too young in this. 

BuRRiLiy. — It is the mind that makes the body's age. 
'Ware your austerity ; I will smite you past and present : 

1 am the Press; I am the power behind the type: I'll 
over-run you with brevier, I'll confute you with long 
primer; I'll edit your soul; I'll make an extra of you; 

289 



I'll damn you on reserve ; I'll slander your physiognomy ; 
I'll garble; I'll rumor; I'll construe; I'll press-damn 
you. Zounds, sir, I'll never bury the pencil — 

Todd. — Tush, you would write up your own damna- 
tion for news. 

BuRRii^i.. — Let me have done; there 's something 
wants damning. 

Todd. — 'Sdeath, you power, you puissance behind the 
office cat. What, Burke, did Burrill write that this old 
fellow was ruined by stocks you debased? That 's a 
barnacle on the bears. 

Offickr. — Mr. Todd, you are called. 

Burke. — Good day, Todd : you " awoke one morning 
and found yourself famous." 

Todd. — Good day, Burke : I awoke one morning and 
found myself damned. Come, sire. 

\_Exeunt all but Burke. 

Burke. — 

Ay, death 's the bear of bears ; it pulls all down. 
Now is the organ of calumny choked up. 
And cannot vent distempers on my name ; 
The public front is smoothed, and death, not gold, 
Has bridged a hell of truth and circumstance. 
But soft, who warned me after? I'd know that. 
And glance my credit by a stronger light. 
Kismet, I'll give out that my health is poor. 
And travel hence into some foreign land — 
The brave man travels and the weak repent — 
Nor come again until this slander 's spent. lExit. 

290 



Sce7ie 4. — A room in Spencer's house. 
Enter Brewster, John, and Drake. 

Brkwstbr.— 

Youth shield her still when this comes to her ear 
Her brother's death is sorrow to the quick ; 
Add now her father's death. 

Drake. — Sir, sir, 

She must not know. Be advised of comfort and 
In drift of falsehood keep her from the shock 
Of her father's death. 

Brewster. — I will consider it. 

Drake. — 

O, sir, we must be instant in device 

Or mar all comfort. Every drop of blood 

Whispers the conscience to hypocrisy: 

lyet 's tell her that her father has a fever, 

And that her presence here is dangerous, 

Still smothering his heart in sympathy: 

So shall her love persuade her hence awhile. 

Whose every hour will be a kind of lock 

lyCtting her heart down from this fearful height; 

And of his death an expectation make 

From fear to determination that the end 

Shall prove more of a pressure than a shock. 

And she will bend, not break. It is my right, 

I take it, sirs. 

John. — It is a warp of mercy. 

291 



Brkwstkr. — I am determined. 

Enter Matron. 

lyook, the lady comes : 
Make known your suit. 

Drakk. — Madam, please come aside; 

I ' ve a suit with you. ^Exeunt Matron ajid Drake. 

John. — Are you persuaded, sir, 

That this will prove the security it seems? 
If she be armed 'gainst this, what shall we do ? 

Brkwstkr. — Do as we may, we may do but our best. 

John.— 

O God ! heaven is razed o'er these four walls 
That was the roof, and there 's no roof o'erhead. 
And I am beaten to the earth by storm. 
My nephew killed ! and now my brother dead. 
Tripped by pure grief ! I would unto my God 
That we were brothers in death. 

Brkwstkr. — Let us go in, 

And guard the body that she not inherit 
To-morrow's legacy with to-day's nerves. \_Exetmt. 

Scene 5. — Another room in Spencer's house. 

Enter Harriet, Venetia, and Idilia. 

Vknktia. — 

O draw aside the curtains, Harriet, 
And flood the room with light ; it grows so dark. 
Nay, draw them back ; I do not like the light : 
Even as before. I thank you, patient friends. 

292 



Harriet. — 

Our hearts are but as rich as your demands — 
No more — and every plaint you make to us 
Makes us more rich. Will you not step outside? 
A little way will bring us to a grove 
Of pleasant paths and restful memories ; 
Where the air is like a mother on the brow. 
O come. 

Vknetia. — It is too far : here will I droop 

And never stir. 

Harriet. — Be comforted, Venetia; 

Some days are fevers that must run their course 
To madness and the past allied. Dear heart, 
These first days o'er and loss looks from the skies, 
Will you not make a willing pilgrimage 
With Idilia and me ? I know a gentle seat 
I^ooking toward the sea, where the heavy heart 
Is comforted. You must not live apart — 
O list — and decline into that pallid brood 
That 's more of sorrow than of earth. 

Venetia. — The sailor says 

The sea gives back our dead ; while others say 
The country gives us back our dead ; others. 
The mountains or the night or solitude ; 
But my heart whispers he will not come again. 
And where I am still there my sorrow is 
And he is not. 

Harriet. — (Aside) O heart, be stone till night. 

Venetia. — 

Once more, stay by me ; leave me not alone. 
It is your promise. 

293 



IDII.IA. — We will. 

Vknktia.— So kind, so kind. 

Harriet. — O come where the air is stirred. 
Venbtia. — Teach me, you heavens, 

To entertain Death for an angel. 
Harriet. — Walk up and down ; 

The still heart is ever fraught. 
VenETia. — O my poor father, 

I pity you then. 
Idilia. — lyook, what you bear in quiet 

You do not bear in vain : this self same loss 

Weighs on 5^our father's heart. Be patient then; 

I^et pity comfort you. 
Harriet. — Will you pass outside? 

Idii^ia. — I think not, cousin : importune no more. 

Enter Matron. 
Matron. — 

My sweet Venetia, you must go with me — 

This makes 3^our father sick, and, if you stay. 

Your presence turns to pain through sympathy. 

Come to my home. 
Venetia. — I^et mourners not be divided. 

Matron. — 

Ah, but you must that grief division have. 

'Tis for the best. 
Idii^ia. — Now grief give her to me. 

I'll not be parted. Come, Venetia, 

And be my grief- fellow. 
Matron. God seal that choice. 

IDII.IA. — Then come away, Venetia, and make ready. 

\_Exeunt Venetia and Idilia. 

294 



Matron. — 

Hush, Harriet, this is a blessed election. 

And I have let it fall though it has grieved 

The very heart of love to give it seal : 

To thrust upon another heaviness 

Is not a custom with me; but in this 

I stand excused. Now give attentive ear; — 

And you were framed for truth, not flattery,— 

Election that this is of free consent 

'Tis made in ignorance of what 's to come. 

And only pity in a dealing with pity 

Has given it seal. 

Harrikt.— Yea, I am pitiful. 

Matron. — 

Her father sleeps beside her brother and 
She knows it not, nor must she know it yet, 
Which cannot be avoided if she bide 
Beneath this roof; while, too, the neighborhood 
Is dangerous, and these unkindest walls 
O'erlook my home ; therefore I lend her you 
That for a little while she may be spared 
That she may be prepared. 

Harrikt.— Her father dead ! 

O how came it? 

Matron.— Subdued by pure grief 

He quit his grief. But, Harriet, do not weep ; 
You shall look upon his face, which is as clear 
As newly lifted from prayer. 

Harriet. — Why do you torture me? 

What more of horror, what new rack to stretch 
My soul upon? Tell me the world is dead, 
295 



And I will mark you with attentive ear 
And swear o'er every separate syllable. 
I 'm sick. 

Matron. — Your sympathy has made you sick. 

Let 's speak no more of this. Your book, I hear — 

E7itey Brewster. 

O, sir, I have told Harriet how it stands: — 
Her cousin begged Venetia go with her 
Unto her home. 

Brkwstkr. — This is most fortunate. 

How, is she gone? 

Matron. — She 's making ready, sir, 

And yet to go. 

Brkwstkr. — In parting, she must not come 

Unto the father : I 've left a servant there 
To guard the body. It will cost some pain. 

Matron. — Hush, hush! I hear one weeping. 

Brkwstkr. — I do not hear it. 

Where? 

Matron. — In the hallway. 
Brkwstkr.— 'Tis the brother there. 

Matron. — A woman weeping. 
Brkwstkr.— What, do you think so ? 

Matron.— Hark ! [^ cry within. 

Brkwstkr. — 

It cannot be she has discovered this. 

Madam, come with me : Harriet, go home, 

You are not needed here. 

296 



Enter John. 

John. — Was that from here, 

That cry? 
Brkwstejr. — 'Tis nothing. 

Enter Drake. 
Drakk. — Who cried like that ? O say. 

Enter Idilia. 
Idii^ia. — 

Where is Venetia ? is she with her father ? 

I heard a cry. 

Efiter Venetia. 

Venetia, is it you? 
Vknktia . — {Siftgs) 

''The IrOrd is my shepherd, 
No want shall I know ; 
I feed in green pastures, 
Safe folded I rest "— 

Harriet. — She is mad ! Oh, oh, oh ! 
Vknktia. — {Sings) 

' * He leadeth my soul 

Where the still waters flow, 

Restores me when wandering, 

Redeems when oppressed." 

Brewster. — 

Friends, stand aside ; she knows too much of death 
And it has frightened her. 'Twill pass, I think. 
Let 's humor her : Miss Spencer, it is time 
That you were going ; see, 'tis six o'clock. 
Your friends stay for you. 

297 



Idilia. — Waiting, Venetia. 

Matron. — Come, let us go ; it is a pleasant walk. 

Vknktia. — I pray you, give me all your hearts, every 
one, every one : give me everything you have, O every- 
thing. 

Brkwstkr. — 

I think m3^ watch is right ; 'tis almost six, 
Almost I say, and draws toward the hour 
I take my leave. Miss Spencer, will j^ou go? 
You see we stay. Come, I 'm a busy man. 

Vknetia. — ( To Harriet) Are you the ninth bridesmaid ? 

Harriett. — No, I am Harriet Kenyon. I would I 
were not. 

Vknetia. — Heart o' mine, what would you? 

Harriet. — 

I would that I were dead, forever laid 
Beyond my troubles and my troublings. 

Venktia. — May your grave be greener for that wish 
with good men's tears. (St7igs) 

" Restores me when wandering, 
Redeems when oppressed." 
Harriet. — 

O, sweet Venetia, wherefore are you thus? 
Was not your brother's death an intercession 
Between the heavens and this fraughted mind ? 
Vknetia. — The first o' June, the first o' June, O the 
first o' June. 'Tis a good lesson and I learned it to 
teach, and the first o' June in the temple flattered me. 
Come early, children, and tread lightly, you rogues. 

298 



Drakk. — 

God ! is this the work of chance or fiends ? 
A first of June I was to call you wife ; 
What do they call you now ? O, Venetia, 

1 will not say farewell, but I must turn 
And hide my face. Ah, that accursed dog 
That killed your brother, whose untimely end 
Has fraught your mind and put you from yourself, 
And made me but the bridegroom of a dream, 
Shall pay for his trespass unto the death. {Exit. 

Vknktia. — No, I will not buy your paper ; my brother 
shall come home and all be well. I am coming, father. 

Harriet. — Pretty Venetia, cannot you throw this off 
by great endeavor? You are not as wont, don't you 
understand? 

Venktia. — I am dead. 

Brewster. — Look on this painting and tell me what 
it means. 

Venetia. — {Sings) 

The rainbow hangs on Vernal Fall, 
The mist on Bridal Veil, 
Where hanging walls 
Drop swaying falls 
To bugle calls. 
Hark, hark, the bells, the bells, the bells ! {Exit. 
Matron. — 

May He send his beloved sleep, 
That she forget. {_Exit. 

Brewster. — Miss Kenyon, Miss Hartland, take 

You cannot aid us and you clog our care. [leave: 

Good night. 

299 



Harriet. — Nay, sir, 'tis good that I am here. 

If you can move my cousin, O persuade her; 

But for myself I will not stir an inch 

Though she grow dangerous. These two poor hands, 

The method in my brain, my body's strength. 

And all I am, unto this fraughted heart 

In service is addressed, for service is 

The onl}^ jewel that remains with me. 

Ah, never pluck that jewel from my soul; 

But, kind pM^sician and true gentleman. 

Bear not against me your authority 

Yet 'gainst my cousin. 
Brewster. — Her strength quite o'ertops yours. 

And since you linger I shall not persuade; 

But if she goes you shall depart with her. 

Miss Hartland, I will tempt her back again: 

Quiet her if you can, humor her if you must. 

I think this comes of some base treachery — 

The servant gave her entry to the dead. 

And now there is a funeral of method 

I greatly fear. lExit. 

John. — Surely the worst is come. 

Beseech you, gentle ladies, do not stay; 

He 's very learned and counsels for the best. {^Exit. 
Harriet. — 

O me, this is the lightning of our fate 

Striking from out a black but unseen sky. 

But one brief hour and she was reasonable. 

Scalding my hands with tears; grasping my hands 

As though they were her heaven and her earth; 

And now she has not the discourse of grief. 
300 



All is undone; the fraught and fearful brain 
Is now distraction's cell, and in her eye 
A white horror floats. O God ! unless I serve 
I shall go mad. 

Re-enter Venetia, Brewster, and Matron. 
VknKTIA. — {Sings) 

Laugh who will and laugh who must, 
All who laugh shall come to dust. 

Well, I have my heart's desire ; they call me the full- 
throated star, and in tribute send me more flowers than 
the dead. Has woman known more? could woman know 
more? could woman ask more? No, no, call me not 
proud ; pride is wicked. O no, no, no, no ! 

Harriet. — Alas, my lost Venetia, you are not proud. 
Were it not that I live you were the most humble of 
God's creatures. 

Brewster. — {Aside) 

How 's this ; she takes the evil on herself. 
It cannot be she told of the father's death ; 
She could not have foreknown : yet so it seems. 

Venetia. — Ah ! See, see, O see, the curtain is up, 
and 'tis a full house to-night : they say there is not dying 
room. O where, where is my musician ? I sing the bridal 
hymn to-night ; yet though I marry I will live at my 
father's house. 

Harriet. — Mayhaps music will comfort her : I will 
play. O it is said that music is medicine to such as 
these, and has in it a soul of recognition to the disjoint 
mind. I^et us hope. {She plays. 

301 



Vkn kti a . — (Si?igs) 

I smell the budding moon 

That makes the Love god swoon. 

I am a bride to-night : shall not a bride rejoice 

{Sings) 

Hush ! hush ! ye golden star, 
Ye blended voice and light ; 
Hush ! hush ! while winds unbar 
The clouded Queen of night : 

Soft winds that breathe and blow 

From rose-bloom laid asleep. 
While Venus burn and glow 
Within the azure deep. 

Hush ! hush ! 3^e beating tide, 
Ye blended voice and hj^mn ; 
Hush ! hush ! while lyove, young-eyed, 
Laugheth at bridal dim : 

Soft laughter of twin wings 

Beating the faint moon-beams. 
While golden midnight brings 
Dreams, dreams, dreams, dreams. 

lyift me up, up, up. 

Harriet. — 

O me, what part is this ! the dead are here, 
And I am making music. O, my friends, 
She must be quieted; 'tis too horrible. 

Venktia.— "Thou Shalt not kill." 

302 



Harriet. — {Aside) 

O God, that this thrice-fevered brain would turn 
And fall as low as I^ethe's tide. 

Matron. — Venetia, the people are gone; in divided 
way, poor child, but with undivided praise. Come now, 
you must rest. 

Brkwster. — Madam, lead her away. I will give her 
opiates that she sleep and cast this fraught in sleep. 

Vknetia.— Thou Shalt, thou shalt,— O what is it, what 
is it ? " Thou shalt — honor thy father and mother. ' ' 

Brewster. — She weeps ; 'tis a good sign. Come, 
madam, lead her to her room. Miss Kenyon, I would go 
now. \^Exeunt Brewster and Matron, leading Venetia. 

Harriet.—'' 'Tis a good sign" : I will go pray. 

IdIIvIA. — 

Let us be patient. O my eyes have bled 
To look upon this piteous spectacle 
With but the heart and not the art to mend. 
Her wants are boundless and our means are naught, 
Yet when we turn our faces from distress 
Let's turn to heaven. O the flower has lost 
Its cadence, not its perfume; artlessly 
She has confessed the marriage of her heart 
With music— Poor bride's heart, where is your joy? 
Harriet. — 

Madness has been a craft to catch the sighs 

Of her renounced heart ; and these dear sighs 

Bespeak a most brave heart ; which whispers me, 

Stealing and giving Hfe, she yet may live 

To lift ten thousand with her finer voice. 

Some clay the potter of repentance has 

To shape a prayer. O come away: weep not. 

\_Exeunt. 
303 



ACT V. 

Scene i. — A Cemetery : before the graves of Spencer 
and Claudius. 

Enter Drake and Curtis: then Todd. 

Todd.— 

Ah, gentlemen, Whaur 's Claudie Spencer noo ? 
I come to meditate upon that thought, — 
His taking off made me philosophical, — 
And that I owe some memory to his bones. 
Curtis. — 

These are the graves ; the father and the son, 
Cut off by accident and heavy grief : 
Too sudden for philosophy. Their names 
Might not be struck so swift ; ere you could bring 
A shock against his name, the man is dust 
Who gave that name its quality and being. 
Todd. — This cannot be said of me. In this respect I 
am greater than my name. 'Tis a good moral that a 
man not thrust himself into position to be less than his 
name. Well, the dead have their name, the living their 
philosophy, and so it will ever be. 
Drake. — 

The deep iniquity before is come to compt. 
He was my dearest friend, and, be it said, 
His heaviest fault weighs light within the beam 
Besides his worth : and none may ever know 
What promise by his death was overthrown. 

304 



That it will rise again, I am to learn ; 
I can but know that he is wholly down, 
And much is tripped. 

Todd. — Sure, yet a little while, 

And one will meditate above my urn. 
I^eaning thus against the paling of that spot, — 
I wonder where 't will be — if hereabout — 
With chin in hand, he will sigh up a world 
Of better days to the melancholy stone 
Of my last mile : which stone he will read thrice. 
Saying, "Yes, that is true; I chance to know." 
Then will he speak of knowing me in life: 
" I knew him well; he was fraternity; 
And he would have his jest, and oft would jest 
Where he most cleaved: of all men in his time 
He best expressed and knew that vanity 
Which is of office: he found the poets lean 
And left them portly: he knew himself, and loved 
The sweets o' life, and thought to live six-score; 
But five-score God was willing : so he died: — 
Who would have thought that Dugal would go next !' ' 
Then heaving a sigh will say, 'Xord, what are we?" 

Drakk. — 

True, we shall miss you, Dugal; let that pass. 

'Tis a simple epitaph that 's graven here; 

His name is elsewhere with his memory: 

Here lies his ashes in a metal casket 

Consigned to dust. Well done, Bohemia: rest. 

Enter Harriet, Venetia, and Idilia at a 
distance, bearing flowers. 

But look, where comes the sister: let 's pass on. 

305 



Todd. — Go before, friends; I will thrust me here and 
there and read epitaphs till dinner time. 

{^Exeunt Curtis, Drake, and Todd. 

Harriet. — 

Humbly I lay these flowers on the turf, 
And thinly scatter them that they smell sweet. 
When one has lost herself, come to the grave 
And she shall find herself. 

Vknktia.— Alas, my dead ! 

I lay this wreath beside you: it will wilt. 
There is a wilderness about my heart; 
I would that I were dead. 

Harriett. — I^et us be firm: 

We come to take farewell a little while 
Of these windowless and doorless tenements; 
I' the morning we go southward: it is well. 
O here, even here your brother Claudius sleeps. 

Ve^nktia. — 

He '11 never leave me now ! I 'm sure of this. 
And sure of nothing else. 

Idii^ia.— Be comforted. 

Venetia, where is your school-mate's grave? 
Is 't backward or beyond. 

Venktia. — O, even here. 

Give me the flowers and I will go apart 

Where death 's less fearful. [She retires with flowers. 

Idii^ia. — O you've forbid my tears 

Or, Harriet, I would weep to think him dead 
Who was to be your husband and whom you loved. 
306 



O chide me not if nature show her drops ; 
Your heart 's as melting but your will 's resolved. 
And, dearest sister, give your grief its due ; 
That heavy grief, closed in, which does not kill, 
Changes the woman into stone. 

Harriet. — I told you ; 

And none but you, Idilia, know of this ; — 
Whether I had a right to burden you 
My brain was too perplexed to rightly know — 
But let that pass — I told I was betrothed 
To him whose spirit I may never meet — 
For who can prophesy beyond the grave ? 
And though, Idilia, I still have found it hard, 
O most, most hard to know that he is dead 
And shall not come again — a mask it is 
To wear on the soul's face; — yet I resay, 
Since 'tis to bear, bear it I will. 

IdiIvIA. — Yes, Harriet. 

'Tis a quiet day. 

Harriet. — A quiet day, Idilia. 

Were grief by beauty patched our hearts were whole. 

Venetia comes : she looks most heavily ; 

Sorrow has worn her features to the lines 

And lineament that ever was the truth 

Beneath this outward image and brief summer mask. 

The human face is a melancholian 

O'er which the painting of a joy is drawn. 

That Time erase this cunning mask, put on 

In mockery of youth, and teach us what we are. 

307 



Vknktia. — 
Soft, let me see, — my memory 's not good, — 
She has been dead three years, September bring 
The autumn leaf. She was as clear and bright 
And full of mischief as a holiday 
In June; and never till I grieved for her 
Was I bereaved of some dear friend and patiently 
Stood waiting her return. I^ife is a gate 
Whereb}^ we stand to greet expected ones, 
And some shall come and some shall not. 

Harriet. — Even so. 

And could we but forget, 't were not so ill; 
And could we cease to think, 't were not so ill; 
And did we never dream, 't were not so ill, 
For dreams are oft the hand that pulls us down 
When we armed against the hand of day, 
For sorrow is not single, but in dreams 
I^ives o'er its nature, and our waking is 
The stuflf our dreams are made of and our dreams 
Walk with us from morn to sable eve. O come. 

Vkn:ETia. — 

I '11 say farewell and go with leaden step. 
This cruel affliction rises in my brain. 
Forced up by tears; I dare no longer stay 
I^est grief undo me. Farewell, my triple eye. 
That ever looks in heaven, though the eye 
In my faint brain is troubled with the mote 
Of dim mortality and oft is veiled 
'Neath lid of dust. 

Idii^ia. — O come away, heavily. lExeunt. 

308 



Scene 2. — Parlors in Kenyon's house. 

Enter Kenyan and Mrs. Kenyan. 

Kknyon. — 

Though yet our Harriet's behavior seems disjoint, 
Else I have not the judgment and respect 
Of which I was possessed before her change, 
She 'gins to mend. The pressure is removed 
Or qualified that made her singular ; 
And where she erst did dream, unbuckling still 
The capable and active gird in plethora of thought, 
A kind of austerity has rooted itself 
Bending the curve of youth into the line 
Of womanhood : and now, since she has cast 
The flowered vest of youth, she seems new framed 
For deeds of duty. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — I cannot find it so. 

Till morning, with her cheek upon her hand, 
Oft by her casement I have found her out. 
About her age 'twas even thus with me ; 
My vineyard was the heaven of fine stars. 
Where I would feast until the envious morn 
lyatched up the gate. 

Kknyon. — Indeed, I sometimes think 

Our dreams and generations are still one; 
But youth is troubled dew ; we cannot know : 
It is a jewel in the rough o' God 
For parents to cut ; but yet we cannot know. 
And when a stone 's imperfect, who 's at fault, 
Or nature or the artist ? teach me that : 
Why, oft it is the stone itself is flawed. 
And oft we see the artist is at fault. 
309 



Our daughter much affects this new found friend 
Whose loss distracted her for several hours. 
She is a gentle lady, and betrothed 
Unto the son of my most worthy friend, 
And welcome for his sake and Harriet's. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — 
And welcome yet again, if all were known. 
My arms enfold her as my heart a thought : 
She is the music of my pulses, sir. 
How ! do you smile as though my love was shrewd ? 
And some there are that have a single eye. 
And some there are that have a triple eye ; 
And he that has the single eye is just ? 
And he with triple eye 's a hypocrite ? 
Nay, these are but the simple and the wise, 
The seeing and the blind, nor more nor less. 
I think there 's yet persuasion in the love 
That Harriet bears Venetia — how it grew 
I am to learn; but now that it is grown 
I '11 profit by it — to move our Harriet 
To return into society. 
Kknyon. — Think so ? 

Mrs. Kknyon. — I have lived long, and the beginning 
taught me that oft my heart is best reached, or is reached 
at all, through another and particular heart. 'Tis even 
so with Harriet. 
Kknyon. — 

So may it prove. My time is given o'er 

Until our guests arrive. S^Exit. 

Enter Harriet. 
310 



Harriet. — Mother, is 't you ? 

I desire to speak with you, though moving you 
To some regret. You have mistaken me; 
Grievously mistaken me. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — Why, look you, Harriet, 
Have I mistaken you? no, I have not; 
I think but good of you and good you are. 
Therefore I 've not mistaken you. 

Harriet. — Yet so. 

And how much better 'tis I speak of this 
Than allow you to build your hopes on a mistake. 
If faith is dust let 's put 't beneath our feet. 
The matter 's touching Stephen Burke. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — Even so. 

I 've here a letter from that gentleman; 
He writes me from the South, where he has gone 
In search of health, that for these many days 
He 's absent from his almost-mother. What, 
He has not written you ? O no, for shame ! 

Harriet. — But, mother, bear with me a little while. 

Enter Venetia. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — 

lyook where my other daughter comes apace. 
Venetia, stand here by Harriet: so. 
O 'tis a painting to make our noblest work, 
Could it be penciled in fond similitude, 
A mote to trouble the eye divine of Art. 
Venetia, I lose you in the morning ? What, 
And Harriet and Idilia ! Alas ! 

311 



My brood is fledged and with a tender wing 
It takes its flight from its beloved roof-tree; 
And like the mother bird, when from her side 
Her nestlings rise and leave her all bereaved, 
I droop forlorn, and gather 'neath my wings 
Three shadows, un comforted. 

Harriet. — Hush, mother, hush ! 

You shall not lose us scarce a summer time. 
This is the luxury and not the heart. 
I say you grapple us too close for that. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — 

Nay: ere the calendar shall cast its leaves 
And fall into the withered tree, ye three 
Shall teach the tender roof-tree how to shoot. 

Venktia. — 

I dreamed last night I ran my race and died 
A bachelor-maid. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — Go, mend your dreams. 

Venktia. — 

I have a pain i' my temple and seek Idilia 
That she massage it. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — She 's in the conservatory. 
Surely your journey will correct this fault: 
Good health 's the philosophy of human life. 
And where is perfect health your country is; 
And finding but that spot sink your hearth-stone 
Deeper than travel ever razed. 

Vknktia. — I will. 

But aside from my great loss I am most well, 
O most, most well, believe me. [Exit. 

312 



Harriet. — Now, mother, attend. 

And bear with me awhile. E'en as I am 
I shall remain; I never will wed man, 
And least in that wed this same gentleman 
Your heart is fixed upon. That I love him, 
You cannot dream; and that I care for him 
You cannot think: and if you hold such thoughts, 
You do me wrong; while, if you speak such thoughts. 
You do me mortal wrong: — the carrion hours 
Of such alliance offend the forward instant. 

single I was born, and single lived, 

And single I shall die. You bear the scales. 

Weigh me ; but though you find me wanting still 

That shall not qualify my determination 

And matured purpose. 
Mrs. Kenyon. — Child of perversity, 

What dream and maiden fantasy is this ? 

Rebellious blazon ! 
Harrikt. — O, dear my mother, no. 

You choosing still to look upon it thus, 

1 cannot help ; but to this point I stand, 
And more in sorrow, mother, than in pride. 

Mrs. Kknyon. — 

How true 's the saying that youth is full of deaths 

And niceties of feeling and of thought, 

For even as the thread is fine it is entangled. 

And, surely, the finer spirit being drawn 

From what 'twas bottomed on more intricate 

Is knitted than the ruder spirit is. 

Therefore I do not give my Harriet o'er : 

Patience shall bottom her upon a husband. 

A bantling for this maze. [ExiL 

313 



Enter Idilia. 

Harriet. — Cousin, how dost thou ? 

Idilia. — I have left Venetia swathed in the dark ; she 
has a pain in her temple. 'Tis an idle hour in a busy 
day : what shall we throw it at ? 

Harriet. — Are you wholly unengaged? Speak as 
you are moved. 

IdiIvIA. — Ay. Where have you spent this hour? 
Time out o' writ, I found you by the merriest laughter, 
later I found you by searching, now I often come where 
you are, but cannot find you. 

Harriet. — I thought to sleep but was oppressd. 

Idii^ia. — Go to the babe and learn to sleep. 

Harriet. — But are you wholly unengaged ? 

Idii^ia. — Yes. 

Harriet. — Would you like I speak of a letter I re- 
ceived ? It cannot be said I have lived in vain. 

IdiIvIA. — O, not one has lived in vain. 

Harriet. — No, for indeed these that live not in vanity 
live not in vain, and these that live in vain shall redeem 
that vanity in dying: so, in the end, none live in vain. 
That is the last time I paint another. Once it was a cus- 
tom with me to paint myself as I should be and others as 
they were; later it was my custom to paint myself as I was 
and others as they should be; still later it was my custom 
to paint myself as I was and others as they were; but now 
I will make it a custom to paint myself as I am and paint 
so far and no further. 

Idilia. — Flattery is so evident, I will not flatter you. 

314 



Harriet. — But come. A stranger writes me that one 
of my poems has persuaded her to continue in an honor- 
able life. I see that oft a book makes life long and long 
life worth the while, and years shall not go unrewarded. 

IDII.IA. — This should flatter you, if you have a heart 
for flattery; the which I doubt not. 

Harriet. — Since books are foods, and by taking 
thought of them we can add to our stature, lengthen our 
life, and climb to the top of health, I am not unworthy 
an humble caterer, if not worthy the artist. 

IdiIvIA. — Will you make your art a caterer? I will 
criticise you — and my criticism is the salt of honest tears 
— that you so lowly esteem yourself. Once there was a 
rose bush in the garden o' the gods which shook down all 
its roses that it be humble and meek; but the gods cut it 
down that it bore only leaves and thorns. 

Harriet. — That these lines were persuasive stuff and 
wrought so far from my purport, I am we^ll pleased. She 
now is rich but honest, and her honesty is her riches; but 
these riches will not save her from particular insults like 
palpable riches. Property begets no insults. 

IDII.IA.— You are keen, cousin. 

Harriet. — The praise of kin is a jewel. Hark, Idilia, 
I have signified to my mother I shall remain the single 
thing I am. What follows is clear art. I am doubly 
forfeit to letters, not doubt. Were there less note in the 
art there were more matter ; but as it is, it is. I have 
plucked a jewel from between the times : 'tis not for the 
world's wearing but for my wearing ; to another it may 
be a pebble, to me it is a precious jewel. Ah, I will live 

315 



for my art and my art will make me whole. Did you 
leave Venetia asleep ? 

IDII.IA. — Reclining, not asleep. She has a pain in her 
temple. 

Enter Mrs. Ke7iyo7i,Johny Drake, and Edmund. 
Harriet. — I must play a part here. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — 

Ladies, you burn your youth beneath a bushel ; 
Come, you must entertain these gentlemen : 
Anon Venetia will attend. In the morning 
We lose you, therefore w^e are gathered here 
To make that parting easy. 
Harriet. — Welcome all. 

Ah, sir, your niece avows she is quite well ; 
Then fear not for her health ; I'll stand for it 
To any reasonable point. 
John. — I'll rest in that. 

I owe yourself, your mother, and this lady, 
A world of gratitude that )'ou welcomed her 
Unto your home, and show^ed her sympathy 
In time of heavy loss. 
Harriet. — O thank us not. 

Enter Mrs. Hartland, Brewster, and Kenyo7i. 

Brewster. — 

Now may ill health retire, and ruddy hearts 
Play hostess in clear eyes. No doubt, dear friends, 
I find you well ? who is it can hide sickness ? 
Ha ! where 's my little visitor ? 

Enter Venetia. 

316 



Harrikt. — She comes. 

Brewstkr. — 

No more; one more the text of comfort mars. 

Miss Spencer, you look quite well. 
Mrs. Kknyon. — And so she is. 
V:eNKTiA. — 

Sir, I am well. You cannot prove I 'm not — 

I hid the temple cloths behind my glass. 

(^Approaching Harriet^ I 'd speak with you. 

Harriet. — With me, Venetia? 

Venktia. — 

* ' And shall it be the less with human largess 

That touches us more near ? ' ' 
Harriet. — What do you mean? 

Vknktia. — ** That touches us more near." 

{She plucks a knife from her dress ; stabs 
Harriet and runs from the roofn. 

Harriet. — O help me, father ! \_ Falls. 

Brewster. — 

Quick, seek her out; she has lost her mind again. 

This way: make haste. 

Drake. — This way: restrain her: swift. 

{Exeunt Drake and fohn. 
Kenyon. — 

O, Harriet, Harriet, what is befallen you? 

Art hurt, my child ? speak to your father, speak. 

What is it you pluck at? let's see, let 's see. 

O wife, she bleeds ! 

Brewster. — Aside, and let me see. 

317 



Mrs. Kenyon. — 

O God, she bleeds ! what shall I do? O what ? 

O lift her up and bear her to this seat. 

My child, my child, what is the matter? speak, 

Speak to your mother. O what, what has she done ? 

O speak. 
Harriet.— I 'm hurt, I think. 

O do not move me, father. 
Brkwstkr.— So, so, so. 

Mrs. Kenyon. — 

me, she 's dying here before my eyes ! 
You are not men who will not lift her up, 
You are all monsters. O, my pretty child, 
I^ook up and speak : i' the morning, Harriet, 
You have a journey to go ; — give me your hand — 

1 will go with you : I'll never leave you more; 
Never, never ! O do not look like that ! 

My God, my God, if thou ere didst miracle. 

Save me my child ! 
Harriet. — O do not move me, father. 

Yes, I am hurt. O, I am dying now ! 

Don't tell Venetia; say I died of a fever. 

And give her my estate. O mourn in works. 

She will grow well and then fulfill herself : 

I thought to live but destiny is come. 

I'm dying, mother : 'tis very likely, now, 

I prove the bachelor-maid : and one request, 

lyay me apart. {^Dies. 

Brewster. — She 's dead ; so easy 'tis to die. 

The life was forfeit to the total pulse ; 

No power could save her, being struck so deep. 

318 



Madam, look to the mother ; Edmund, lend hand. 

{^Exeunt Mrs. Hartland and Edmund^ 
leading Mrs. Kenyan. 

I am physician to the living and 

While there is madness there is life. 
Idii^ia. — O, Harriet, 

I will not think you dead ; you are so near, 

And breath is all around. Look up and speak. 

And shall I never hear her voice again ? 

I will weep. 
Kknyon. — Hush, pretty daughter, hush. 

My grief lies deepest : be you less than me. 

lyook, I am firm ; I have not shed a tear. 

Come to my arms and be my living child 

Ivcst my heart crack. 
Brewstkr. — Farewell, sweet lady: 

May brighter airs still clip your path about. 
Re-enter John. 

John. — I suspect all. 

I passed the mother swooned upon the stairs, 

And Edmund nodded at my horror, I 

At Edmund's horror. We came to her and spoke, — 

Spoke gently, sirs, — then, putting up her hand 

Unto her temple, my ever-gentle niece 

Sank low as this. {^Pointing at Harriet.) 
O God, I have no home ! 

And life is ended when the home has end. 
Brewster. — 

'Tis so, 'tis so, 'tis so. 

lyCt 's bring the body to an inner room. 

319 



Kknyon. — 

My loss lights on no one; — God shield me there — 
My hospitality goes with this along. 
O help me, friends ! I hold yet in some life, 
But life 's not peace, and inward stands a strife 
Unto my end. Hush, bring her to her rest. 

\^Exeunt, bearing off Harriet. 




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